


Those Nights We Sought All The Words

by ConsultingPurplePants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Parent!lock, Psychological Torture, Sherlock Speaks French, mentions of torture, post-tab, rainy rooftop drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been living with Mary again for over a year with their daughter when he makes a discovery that changes everything.<br/>He seeks shelter at Baker Street, but after all this time, will Sherlock take him back?</p><p> <em>Throughout this fic, Sherlock will sometimes speak French. In order to view the English translations, simply hover the cursor over the text, and the translation should appear as a mouseover text.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <b>This is not a WIP! I will be posting the chapters as I edit them, approximately every second day.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> Here we are, yet another non-WIP but torturously updating fic... I love you all.
> 
> Extra-special thanks and shoutout to my beta **[@hushwatson](http://hushwatson.tumblr.com)** , whose comments and corrections (and code!) made this all possible. You're awesome. Keep kicking ass.
> 
> I hope you all like this French!lock Parent!lock Sherlock!whump situation :)
> 
> ...I'm also very glad that the party bus is a bus and therefore cannot cross the ocean, as I have taken refuge on a different continent for publishing purposes.

John awakens in complete darkness with a pounding headache and an insistent need to urinate.

For once, he laughs to himself as he drags himself out from under the blankets, it’s his bladder that drags him from sleep, rather than his nightmares. Dinner with Mary last night had consisted of roast chicken and copious glasses of wine, and his body just isn’t what it used to be. He shakes his head at his own foolishness, smiling slightly as he heads to the loo. He turns to close the bedroom door behind him and catches sight of Mary’s calm, sleeping body, her chest rising and falling slowly with her breathing, perfectly peaceful. He can’t help but think that while this arrangement may not be perfect, while he may not quite have the forgiveness in him, he can still make this work. For Mina’s sake. 

After all, he’s been doing it for over a year. 

The door to the toilet creaks as he pushes it open and he stops, frozen, listening for any sign of movement from the nursery across the hall. There’s the sound of a tiny body shifting, a murmur that sounds suspiciously like _Da_ , and then everything quiets again. John lets himself breathe again before soundlessly shutting the door behind him. 

He uses the toilet, letting out a sigh of relief as the pressure on his bladder is released. Everything seems to be going smoothly considering the incredibly late (or rather, early) hour.

In retrospect, he should have realized it was going just a little _too_ smoothly. 

Just as he’s reaching over to flush the toilet, his toe gets caught in the edge of the bath mat and he nearly goes flying head first into the cabinets. There’s a dull thud rather than a resounding crash, for which he really is quite grateful, but the gratefulness is soon overshadowed by the throbbing pain in his toe and knee. He gingerly raises his head to inspect the damage to the small bathroom, but the cabinet he’d nearly taken with him is still standing, supporting the sink atop it as if nothing had happened. He huffs a laugh at his misfortune; at least Mina hasn’t woken.

He puts his hands flat on the ground to try to push himself up, but when he puts his weight on it, his left hand slips on the damp tiles and ends up beneath the cabinet, sending him sprawling again. The new pain in his chin upon impact, however, is nothing compared to the horror he feels at touching something distinctly _hairy_ beneath the cabinet. 

He nearly leaps backwards in shock at the feeling, but reins himself in just in time, staring at his hand like he’s been burnt.

He stops. Breathes. 

Slowly, the thought crawls unbidden into his mind: what would Sherlock do?

John reaches slightly upwards and opens up the cabinet door to pull out the emergency torch they store within it. He takes a deep breath before gingerly lowering his head back below the cabinet, flashlight in hand. 

Taped quite securely to the bottom, save for a long strand of hair that has escaped its bindings, is a dark brown wig. Through his suddenly laboured breathing, he somehow manages to make a couple of deductions.

It’s a woman’s wig, fairly new if he goes by its state of cleanliness despite being taped underneath a bathroom cabinet. Mary’s, then, as he’s fairly sure his one-year-old daughter has not taken to taping wigs beneath cabinets in her short time in this world.

Its age is confirmed by the colour of the gaffer tape holding it in place; John and Mary had spotted that particular ducky design only last week, and John had purchased it with a smile when Mary had pointed out that Mina loves rubber ducks, and would probably complain less about her broken toys if they repaired them with this.

Seeing it holding up his wife’s disguise makes his stomach roil unpleasantly, and this time, he can’t blame the wine.

There’s only one possible reason Mary would need a brown wig, and it makes John feel indescribably ill. He sits down on the cold blue tile, back against the bathtub.

It’s been just over a year since he returned to Mary after that horrifying Christmas with Sherlock’s parents. He’d faked his forgiveness, sure, but he had definitely not expected Mary to fake her _apology_. The shock of it is nearly overwhelming; he’d really thought she’d changed for him.

John, of course, had stayed for his daughter. The harsh reality is, his presence here has nothing to do with Mary, and right now, he absolutely cannot imagine his precious, beautiful, _intelligent_ daughter being raised by an active assassin. The mere thought fills him with a determination he hasn’t felt in… years, really.

He pushes himself up off the floor, ignoring the twinge in his foot, and opens the door as soundlessly as possible. On his way back down the hallway, his head full of dark thoughts, he finds himself stopping in front of Mina’s room as the panic begins to overtake him. He cracks open the door and looks in at the crib and its impossibly small and yet impossibly large occupant, sleeping peacefully with a tiny fist thrown over her forehead. Mina grows by leaps and bounds, her intelligence far beyond her years (or months, he should say), and John has never valued another human being more in his life. 

She has placed her trust in him; despite her recently developed ability to waddle about, she is completely helpless. He can’t leave her in the care of the most dangerous woman he’s ever met. 

Mina gives a quiet, restless snuffle, then turns her tiny blonde head towards him. John peers in at Mary’s nose, both of their hair, and his own tiny closed eyes, and his protective instincts come awake with a roar. He closes her door quietly and pads down the hall into his room. 

He pulls their bedroom door shut and goes straight for his phone, firing off a quick text.

_Sorry Sarah. I’ve got some sort of stomach flu, can’t come into work today. Hopefully only a 24 hour bug!_

There’s a rustle from the other side of the bed. 

“John? What time is it?” Mary mumbles, her hand stretching across the bed towards him.

He puts the phone down, then gets back under the covers, pushing her hand away. “Sorry. I think I’ve caught something, I wouldn’t recommend touching me right now. It’s half three,” he adds, remembering her question.

Mary draws her hand back quickly; nothing like the mention of a stomach bug to keep people away. 

“You all right?” she murmurs.

John shuffles around in bed, stuffs his face in his pillow. “Yeah, yeah. Just texted Sarah to tell her I’m missing work tomorrow,” he says into the sheets. Mary rolls over and goes back to sleep, and John tries to force himself to, as well.

***  
John wakes up to the sound of his cell phone being placed quietly back on the bedside table; of _course_ she checked, and John is grateful that even at half three in the morning, he knows not to trust her. He feigns sleep as Mary moves around the room getting dressed, then leaves, drawing the door gently shut behind her. He doesn’t move as he listens to Mary feed Mina, their happy breakfast chatter almost painful to listen to now that he knows the truth.

Soon enough, Mary is back at the door. “John?” she whispers.

John makes a sort of grunting noise. Mary goes on. “I’m off to work, then. Josie’s late, but she’ll be here to take care of Mina. I’ll tell Sarah you’re at home resting up.”

John grunts again, burrowing further into the pillows. Mary laughs. “Love you, you big grump.”

John mumbles something back, and Mary retreats, closing the door behind her. John waits until he hears the car start and pull away before he leaps out of bed and dresses hastily, pulling on jeans and a comfortable jumper before packing everything he can find of his own into a large army duffel. 

It’s rather sad, really, that the vast majority of his things still fit into a single duffel after all these years. He rests his hands on his hips, eyeing the room and considering his next step.

They have a sitter on days where both of them work; she can’t be here to witness this, and John thanks a god he’s not sure he believes in that she’s running late today. He pulls out his phone and sends out another text, listening to Mina babble to herself in her play pen.

_Hey Josie! So sorry about this, but I’ll be home today after all, so you won’t need to come in. We’ll still pay you in full today because of the short notice._

He’s just putting his last pair of socks into a side pocket when the answer comes in.

_Thank you so much, Dr. Watson!_

He puts down the duffel, then moves on to the next part of his plan. 

He starts in the bathroom, since that’s where he found the wig. He taps along the walls, searches all the cabinets, but finds nothing until he tries running his nails between all of the tiles and finds that the one nearest the toilet is loose. 

He pries it up to reveal a small handgun, two DVDs, and several rounds of ammunition. Looking down at the items that have been hiding in his bathroom this whole time, he’s ashamed that the only thing he really feels is relief. 

He stands up, determined, and starts on the rest of the house.

***  
By the time he phones Mycroft, he’s got two hand guns, two DVDs of _Did you miss me?_ footage, a sniper rifle and more ammunition than he can count, three different wigs, two fake noses, several different pairs of coloured contact lenses, two outfits he can only really describe as ninja outfits, and a lapful of one-year-old pointing and laughing at the rubber duck he’s bouncing around in front of her nose as he desperately prays for Mycroft to answer. 

He picks up on what feels like the hundredth ring.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Watson?”

At the sound of his voice, Mina stops following the duck and starts shouting, “Myc! Myc! Myc!” at the top of her voice. John lowers the phone volume in a vain effort to calm her.

“Mycroft. I’ve just found several weapons and disguises in our flat, as well as the DVDs she must’ve used to send out the Moriarty broadcast.”

There’s a long silence on the other end. Mina even stops chanting and snatches the duck from John’s fingers, sticking it in her mouth as they wait for a response. 

“You’re sure these are… recently used?” 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Some are even recently acquired.” 

“Where is Mary now?”

“She’s gone to work, I told her I had a stomach bug and couldn’t go in.” 

“And you’re sure she believed you?” Mycroft sounds more concerned than John’s comfortable with.

“Yes, absolutely sure. We barely spoke this morning, no time for her to figure out I’m lying,” John answers uneasily. 

What if it wasn’t enough?

“All right, John. Here’s what I need you to do.”

“Take Mina and run, yeah?”

“Precisely. Take all of Mina’s things, because I don’t think you’ll be able to return to your flat in the near future. Go to Baker Street. You’ll be safer there.”

John nods to himself, inspecting his packing one more time. He’s pretty sure he has everything they need; worst case, they can buy anything he’s missing. “I’ve got what we need.”

“Good. Then go, John. Go. I can’t stress enough how imperative it is that you flee quickly.”

“Mycroft? One more question?”

“Yes, John, but hurry.”

“What’ll happen to Mary?”

“We will detain her, John, but that’s all I can tell you for now. Now go, please!”

Mycroft’s worried tone is enough to make John hang up, slip the phone in his pocket and go sprinting for the door, the duffels full of his and Mina’s things thrown over his shoulder and Mina clutched securely in his arms. She isn’t giggling anymore, the severity of the situation felt even by her tiny mind. 

John leaves the house, locking the door purely out of habit. He runs down the stairs and out into the street.

He hears the loud whir of a helicopter approaching his flat as he rounds the corner towards the tube station, and the adrenaline rush is enough to keep him going all the way to Baker Street without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your room is still empty, if that’s what you came here to ask,” he murmurs, adjusting a knob as he speaks. “I assume it’s unsafe to go back to your flat?”
> 
> John nods. 
> 
> “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to, of course. That’s what _best friends_ do, isn’t it?” Sherlock says, and there’s an undertone of _hurt_ to it that John has never heard before. He starts to slowly back out of the kitchen.
> 
> “Thank you,” he says, turning to pick up his bags. He barely hears Sherlock’s, “No trouble,” before he shoulders them and heads up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to hell

John fumbles with the key for much too long before he manages to push open the door to 221 Baker Street. He drops the duffel bags on the floor, the strain on his shoulder having turned painful several tube stations ago. He glances up the stairs to make sure the door is open before he places Mina gently at his feet, and she starts her slow crawl up the seventeen steps, muttering _Sh’ock_ to herself. John watches her go, wary of any signs that a backwards tumble is about to occur. 

The door to 221A creaks open, and Mrs. Hudson pokes her head out. Her face breaks into a wide smile at the sight of the small blonde person making slow but steady progress up the steps, but she freezes when she spots the duffel bags. She hovers uncertainly in the doorway, clearly unsure of how to proceed, and John is puzzled. Hadn’t she always been after him to come back?

“John!” she finally says, slightly more carefully than usual. “It’s… lovely to see you.”

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Hudson?” John finds himself asking. Her hesitance doesn’t bode well for his welcome upstairs. 

Mrs. Hudson winds her fingers around each other nervously, not quite wringing her hands, but not so far from it, either. “It’s just… you haven’t been around in quite a while, John, and you’ve— You’ve missed things. I mean, you always have, really, but now…” She trails off, holding her hands out as though the gesture makes up for all of the words she can’t seem to find.

John just stares. He’s been here recently enough that even Mina knows where they are, but truth be told, it _has_ been a couple of months since he and Sherlock last spoke, and he internally berates himself for not having thought of contacting Sherlock before coming. He picks up the duffel bags, bracing himself for Sherlock’s reaction.

“I’ll just… see if this is all right with him, then?” John asks. Mrs. Hudson nods, glancing nervously up the stairs, then goes back into her own flat. The door quietly clicks closed behind her.

John drags the bags up the stairs, ignoring the twinges in his shoulder until he reaches the open door of 221B. A quick glance inside reveals a mess that Sherlock is quite obviously doing his best to clean up as quickly as possible. John catches a glimpse of the blue satin dressing gown flying around the corner towards the kitchen, a mass of papers exploding out behind it while Sherlock curses more colourfully than John has ever known him to. Looking around for his daughter, he spots her sitting on the ground in front of the coffee table, holding the skull carefully in her tiny hands and peering intently into its eyes. He smiles, shaking his head, then goes in search of Sherlock.

He finds him in the kitchen, staring with great concentration at his hands, surrounded by piles of paper. He doesn’t look up when John enters. 

“I suppose this means we’re talking again. Here to stay, this time?” Sherlock asks the nearest pile of paper.

John blinks at him. The sharpness of his tone is uncharacteristic and takes John by surprise. 

“I didn’t realize we weren’t talking,” he starts, but Sherlock doesn’t react, merely continues staring at the papers around him. John decides to get to the point. “I— Yes. I— I found some things. In the flat.”

Sherlock’s hands slowly clench into fists. “So Mary is active again.”

John nods. “I’ve called Mycroft and sent him after her.”

Sherlock’s head finally comes up at that. “Not me?”

John blinks again. He catches a glimpse of the fury in Sherlock’s eyes and is taken aback by how quickly Sherlock went from zero to a hundred. “What?”

“You found ‘some things’ in the flat. You didn’t call me, but you called _Mycroft_?” Sherlock’s left fist shakes, clearly out of his control. “I knew we weren’t close anymore, John, honestly, I did, but Mycroft? Really?”

The anger rises within him, unbidden. “It was an emergency, Sherlock! If I needed the British government mobilized, who the fuck else was I supposed to call?”

Sherlock doesn’t move. He stares silently at John, his eyes roving, deducing, and for perhaps the first time, John hates it. Hates that Sherlock can read everything about him at a glance, while Sherlock remains a puzzle to him. Sherlock is already upset enough, though; John holds his tongue.

Now that he properly thinks about it, he doesn’t understand why he didn’t call Sherlock. 

There was a time when Sherlock would have been the first and _only_ person he would have called, but he and Mary had been so busy juggling Mina and both their jobs that he hadn’t even realized it had been so long since he last spoke to him. He hadn’t realized what effect it had had on Sherlock, and after all of the ignored texts and calls that had eventually trickled down to nothing over the last couple of months, it had been stupid of him to expect an open-armed welcome from his now nearly-estranged best friend. 

He looks back at Sherlock and prepares himself to pick up his bags and find a hotel. Oddly enough, Mycroft would probably help. 

John waits. 

Eventually, Sherlock sees something that causes him to slump over the table and reach for his microscope, the fight gone out of him.

“Your room is still empty, if that’s what you came here to ask,” he murmurs, adjusting a knob as he speaks. “I assume it’s unsafe to go back to your flat?”

John nods. 

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to, of course. That’s what _best friends_ do, isn’t it?” Sherlock says, and there’s an undertone of _hurt_ to it that John has never heard before. He starts to slowly back out of the kitchen.

“Thank you,” he says, turning to pick up his bags. He barely hears Sherlock’s, “No trouble,” before he shoulders them and heads up the stairs. 

He drops them on the bed, then pads back down to get his daughter; he can’t leave her with the skull all day. She spots him with a happy _Da!_ and points out the skull, chattering away at him while banging it rather violently against the floor. John is glad she hasn’t yet got the strength to break it. He picks her up, smiling, inhaling the safe scents of _home, comfort, Mina,_ and walks back upstairs, depositing her and her new friend on the bed. 

There’s the sound of Sherlock slamming through the flat, then the crash of the front door. 

Mina stops moving, looking for a moment as though she’s deciding whether or not she’s been startled enough to cry. John quickly hands her the skull, and she coos softly at it, shock immediately forgotten. John wishes he could be distracted that easily.

He opens up the first duffel and starts pulling out his socks, arranging them in the dresser, but his heart isn’t in it. Each of his movements is automatic; he still hasn’t been gone for long enough to have forgotten this place. 

This time, though, moving in doesn’t feel the same. 

He remembers the first time he unpacked his things in this very room; the feeling of hope, of adventure, of something _new_ that had filled him at the thought of sharing a flat with the most extraordinary individual he’d ever had the blind luck of meeting. His cane had stood by the door, unused, and he had basked in the feeling of having the use of both of his legs. Everything had seemed open, perfect, _possible_.

Now, everything is different. There is a thin layer of dust over everything, as if Sherlock never comes in here. The room feels musty and old, uninhabited, devoid of all of the things that had welcomed him here all those years ago. Before, thoughts of the future had filled his head; now, thoughts of Sherlock’s face, refusing to look at him, and the hurt tone of his voice haunt his every move. Even Mina’s happy babbling when he opens up her crib isn’t enough to drag him from his rapidly blackening mood. 

He places her in her play pen with several of her toys (two hippopotamuses, a few toy cars, and a stuffed giraffe), but she whines and fidgets, pointing somewhere above her head until he hands her back the skull. He _does_ smile at that, wondering how he’s going to explain to Sherlock that his daughter won’t play with anything but genuine human bones. 

In the end, he shouldn’t have worried about that; the rest of the afternoon passes in silence, Sherlock remaining _out_ , wherever that is. John takes Mina down to the Tesco on the corner to get something edible for that evening, makes dinner, then puts her to bed, following soon after. 

He doesn’t sleep.

***

John is still awake when Sherlock comes in at one o’clock in the morning. His footsteps are quiet as he climbs the stairs and enters the flat. Nothing is slammed, this time. 

He listens as Sherlock walks into the kitchen and pulls out a chair. He hears him moving it around, seemingly to find a comfortable position, but it feels like an age before the footsteps head down the hallway and into the room directly below John’s. The door closes quietly. 

In the dead silence of the flat, it isn’t difficult to hear the soft sounds of Sherlock undressing for bed, and not for the first time, John wonders. 

If things had been different, if he had been less of a coward, would he have been waiting for Sherlock in their bed, ready to welcome him back with warmth and apologies? 

He shoves down his own wishful thinking before it can get out of hand.

It was never like that; at least not for Sherlock. And when he came back…

There’s the click of a light switch, then silence. It’s too late for them, anyway.

It feels like hours before John finally drifts off to sleep.

***  
He wakes up at four o’clock to the sound of Sherlock screaming. He sits up quickly, halfway out of bed before he realizes that the sounds are coming from the room below him, muffled by the floor standing between them. He shuffles quietly to the door, all senses on the alert, and creeps downstairs, gun in hand as he approaches Sherlock’s room. 

By the time he reaches it, the screaming has stopped, and John freezes, fearing for the worst. Heart in his throat, he reaches out and gently pushes open the door. 

Inside the room, he finds that the covers have been torn off the bed, and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. The room is still plunged in darkness, the only light coming from the slightly open door, but John can’t seem to catch sight of an assailant, either. He pushes the door open the rest of the way. 

“Sherlock?” he whispers, hoping, _praying_ that he hasn’t arrived too late. He takes two small steps into the room, gun not raised but at the ready, and clicks on the lamp on Sherlock’s bedside table.

There’s a shuffling sound behind him, and he whips around to find Sherlock huddled on the ground behind the door, sheets wrapped around his naked form, looking smaller than John would ever have thought possible for such an imposing presence. 

“John?” Sherlock whispers back, voice cracking, sounding impossibly lost, and with a creeping feeling of shame and horror, John realizes that he never _did_ ask Sherlock what happened to him during his two years away. 

“Are you all right?” John says, voice at a normal volume, and Sherlock flinches. John puts his hand out to help him up, but Sherlock simply stares at it, his eyes unfocused and confused. 

John knows better than to try and pick him up.

“Do you want to get back into bed, maybe?” he tries. Sherlock shakes his head, pulling the sheets more tightly around himself.

John waits. 

Slowly but surely, Sherlock’s eyes regain their normal focus and Sherlock seems to take in his surroundings properly for the first time. 

He raises his head and catches sight of John, and that’s when he seems to come back to himself with a vengeance. 

“Get out.”

John pulls his hand away in shock. “What?”

“Get out, John, GET OUT!”

“Are you sure you don’t need—.”

Sherlock rises from the ground in one rapid, graceful movement, twisting towards John with something dark in his eyes as he roars, “ _GET. OUT._ ”

John rushes back up the stairs, kicking himself, and huddles back under his own blankets to the sound of Sherlock breaking something in the kitchen.

By some miracle, Mina sleeps through the whole thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you think caused this? I don’t understand what could possibly have—.”
> 
> This seems to strike something in Mrs. Hudson; John’s mouth clamps shut as she twists her head back towards him, quick as a flash, and this time, her eyes are hard, her voice as harsh as he has ever heard it.
> 
> “John Watson, you listen to me. Of course you can’t possibly know; have you ever even _thought_ to ask him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdf;laskdjf;alskjdf more hell

John doesn’t remember tea with Mrs. Hudson ever being this awkward before; for long stretches at a time, their teacups occasionally striking their saucers is the loudest sound in the small kitchen. The upstairs flat is silent, Sherlock having been called out on a case that he was all too desperate to take, despite John’s estimate that it was no more than a four.

They exchange forced pleasantries about the weather, unpacking, and the hardships that come with having a baby and Sherlock in the same flat, while Mina sits in her playpen in the background, happily banging the skull on various surfaces. John is still baffled by the fact that her fist is so tiny that it comfortably fits in the eye holes. 

The stilted, awkward conversation feels like it could go on forever without either of them ever bringing up the elephant in the room. 

In the end, it’s John who finally broaches the subject. Mrs. Hudson gives him a grateful smile. 

“He wasn’t… I lived with him for months after he was shot. He didn’t have a single nightmare or PTSD episode the whole time.”

Mrs. Hudson nods, but doesn’t answer right away. She inspects her tea for a long time before speaking. 

“It started after he came back from the airport with you, after he took all of those—those drugs, on that dreadful plane. He just… John, it started that very night, and now he has them at least once a week. I tried going up there once, but he turned… monstrous, really. I haven’t tried since.”

She looks away. For a woman with such a strong motherly attachment to Sherlock, not being able to comfort him must be incredibly difficult.

“What do you think caused this? I don’t understand what could possibly have—.”

This seems to strike something in Mrs. Hudson; John’s mouth clamps shut as she twists her head back towards him, quick as a flash, and this time, her eyes are hard, her voice as harsh as he has ever heard it.

“John Watson, you listen to me. Of course you can’t possibly know; have you ever even _thought_ to ask him?”

John opens his mouth to argue, but Mrs. Hudson goes on, speaking right over his pathetic attempt at interrupting.

“You saw what he looked like when he came back! He wasn’t himself! He wasn’t all right! I know you had a wedding to plan to— to _her_ , but for God’s sake, how could you ignore what was right in front of your face?”

John bows his head, ashamed, but Mrs. Hudson is far from done with him.

“He did it all for you, you know. All of it. He keeps saying it was to protect the three of us, but really, John, Detective Inspector Lestrade and I know better than that. And so should you! And you couldn’t even be bothered to—.”

She huffs out a shuddering breath, her teacup trembling in her hand as she visibly attempts to calm herself. She leans forwards, her whisper shaky in John’s ears. 

“It was Serbia, John. I know it was. He— He didn’t do it last night, mind, but he often screams in another language. It sounds… I dunno, Eastern European, probably. I didn’t put two and two together until he told me where they were planning on sending that plane.”

John takes an unstable sip of tea. “He—He told you all of that?”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes flash. “Yes. _Because I asked him._ ”

She glares at him over the rim of her tea cup. 

“So you think all this was triggered by the threat of a few more months in Serbia? That doesn’t seem—.”

Mrs. Hudson gives him a look that he has only previously seen on Sherlock’s face when John’s said something particularly stupid. 

That look has never looked quite this sad, though, and it twists Mrs. Hudson’s face in a way that makes John want to run from the room. 

“How can you still be so oblivious, John?” she says, the disappointment shining in her eyes.

“What? How so?” John demands, outraged. He can’t be called an idiot by every single person he knows. He doesn’t understand why everyone always seems to know more about his own life than he does.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, getting up to clear the table. John pushes his chair back, understanding her silent request that he leave now that tea is over. 

She doesn’t answer his question until he has the play pen folded up and Mina in his arms, tugging insistently and inexplicably on his left earlobe. 

“John, he didn’t pack a single thing. When you got back here, everything was just as he’d left it, don’t you see? Who leaves for a several month mission in a foreign country with absolutely nothing of their own? Even his socks and pants were still here. Nothing in his bedroom was the slightest bit disturbed.”

John freezes in the doorway, suddenly beginning to understand where this is going. Mina, sensing his sudden tension, tilts her head with an inquiring, _Da_?

“Even when—When he was gone. The first time. There were things missing. I’d go up and clean and notice that things had either moved or disappeared. I thought we had rats or something else dreadful!”

John turns slowly to face Mrs. Hudson, who’s shaking her head at him again. She puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, but that does nothing to soothe the blow that she delivers next, no matter how much John senses that it’s coming. 

“He wasn’t coming back, John.”

“Maybe they were going to give him supplies while he was abroad—,” John tries, but Mrs. Hudson fixes him with a stern look and shakes her head. 

“He wasn’t coming back,” she repeats. She gently pushes him out of her flat and shuts the door before he can try to argue again. 

John swallows, turns with his back military-straight, and heads back up the stairs to re-open the playpen and place his daughter gently within it. He then goes to sit on the sofa of the empty sitting room and stares blankly at the wall before him, Mrs. Hudson’s words echoing in his ears. 

***  
Sherlock returns hours later in a whirlwind of movement, his coat swirling around him as he slams the door and waves his hands around excitedly.

“Oh, John, it was _fantastic_ , at least a _seven_ , the murderer tried to pin it on the cat, but he _actually nearly managed it_ , it was _brilliant_ —.”

John looks up from where he’s been staring blankly at the coffee table for the last two hours. His stomach grumbles insistently, reminding him that while he’s gotten up to feed Mina, he himself has had nothing but a scone since tea at Mrs. Hudson’s. Sherlock stops.

“John? Is everything all right?”

John forces a smile. “I— Everything’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. D’you mind if we get Thai for dinner?”

Sherlock looks him up and down, frowning more and more with every pass. “Thai is—acceptable, but John, you’re not—.”

John stands. “I’m fine! Please just… drop it. Please.”

He walks towards the kitchen to get his mobile, then starts punching in the number for the Thai place two streets over, ignoring Sherlock’s continued stare as best as he can. Eventually, Sherlock turns to hang up his coat, and the weight of his concentration lifts from John’s shoulders. 

They dance around each other until the food arrives. Mina shouts excitedly when the doorbell rings and John smiles warmly at her, the small reminder that he’s truly important in someone’s life more valuable than he could ever explain. 

They get the food out of the containers and onto plates, and John lets Mina play with one of the chopsticks. They set up the plates in the kitchen to the sound of Mina happily squashing her noodles with her single utensil, several of her fingers, and, for some reason, her nose. John makes sure her sippy cup remains within reach but also at a safe distance from the havoc she’s currently wreaking before he sits down across from Sherlock.

There’s something familiar about sitting at _this_ table, with _this_ man, that warms John from the inside out despite his horrible morning, making him think of better times, when everything was hopeful, when there was always the chance of something _more_. 

He keeps his thoughts to himself, and they eat mostly in a silence punctuated by noodle-squishing until John remembers that they have to talk about something. 

“I’ve got to go back to work, soon,” he says around a mouthful of beef. Sherlock looks up.

“I’m sure Mycroft took care of that already.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure Sarah appreciates being understaffed. I should go back, now that everything is relatively settled down here and Mary is in custody.”

Sherlock mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _Well you_ would _know what Sarah appreciates_.

“What?”

“Nothing. Why are we discussing this?”

John almost wants to laugh; moments like this make it difficult to remember that they haven’t had one in nearly four years. “Sherlock, I have a daughter.”

“Yes.”

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t elaborate. 

“I’ve got to hire a sitter for the days that I’m working. Our old one lived very close by, but getting into town every day would be quite a trek for her. I’ve got to find a new one,” he finally says. Sherlock blinks at him.

“I could watch Mina,” he offers, his face lighting up. John gapes at him.

“You— what? You want to keep an eye on a baby all day? What about your experiments? Your cases? You’ve got other things to do.”

Sherlock shrinks a little. “John, she’s your child. Of course I would watch her. Prioritize her, even.”

“I— It’s just— The explosions—.”

“I wouldn’t run experiments while she was around! John, you know me, you know I have more sense than that!”

There’s a hurt tone to his voice that John doesn’t think he’s heard before. 

“But what if you get called in on a case?”

Sherlock’s eyes go a little glassy just as his voice gets harder. “John. If I tell you I’m going to prioritize her, it’s because I am! I’m not taking this lightly!” he nearly shouts.

John stares at him, stunned. Sherlock’s voice drops, as do his shoulders. John’s not sure he’s ever seen him look quite this small before. “Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs. If I need help, I could call her. You know she would come.”

The concession looks almost painful to make, and John finds himself agreeing before he even quite knows what he’s doing. Sherlock nods in acknowledgement, but doesn’t speak more than that for the rest of the evening. 

Once the washing up is done, John goes upstairs to put Mina to bed. He changes her into her pyjamas, then lays her down on her back in the crib. She stares up at him, putting out her hand.

“Hey there,” he tells her. He puts his hand in and touches his palm to hers. She laughs delightedly, wriggling happily in her onesie, and he marvels at how his palm dwarfs hers completely.

“D’you like it here?” he murmurs. She coos softly in answer, waiting for him to continue. Sometimes, he wonders just how much she understands. 

“We might stay here quite a while. Would you like that? I know I would. I’ve—I’ve missed him.”

He leans in close, whispers right up against her nose. Mina giggles loudly. “This is home. Always has been. He—Sherlock makes it that way, I suppose.”

When Mina’s coos start to get quieter and sleepier, he stands back, then goes to sit against the headboard to text Sarah while he waits for Mina to fall asleep.

_Hey. I’m ready to come back in, if that’s all right. Do you have any shifts for me?_

Sarah’s reply comes quickly, as usual.

_Yeah. I’ve got one tomorrow afternoon, if you’re available. Did you get that tax trouble sorted out, then?_

John puts his face in his hands, wondering what the hell Mycroft told Sarah.

_Yeah, yeah. It’s all fine. I’ll see you tomorrow!_

_That’s good :) See you, John!_

John huffs a relieved sigh and tosses the phone down beside him on the pillows. He gets up to change into pyjamas, then heads down to the bathroom. 

Once inside, he pauses at the door to Sherlock’s room. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, then stands in front of it, shuffling his feet awkwardly, unsure of what to say. 

He knocks softly.

“Sherlock? Listen. I just. I wanted to apologize. It’s not that I don’t trust you with Mina. I do. Really.”

He waits, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything in return. John goes on.

“It’s just— She’s the most precious thing in my life. She’s a part of me, and she’s so helpless, so small, and I— I have to protect her. I have to give her my best. Because she deserves that. She deserves to have the best in life.”

Sherlock stays silent.

“And you’re— you’re the best in life, Sherlock. I don’t know why I hesitated earlier; it was awful of me. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, happened to anyone, really, and I just thought you should know that. So. Thank you. For everything.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything back, and John gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Sherlock?”

Only silence answers him.

John slowly pushes open the door to the bedroom. 

The bed is empty; Sherlock is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing that doesn’t seem to be getting better, though, is Sherlock’s nightmares. 
> 
> Like Mrs. Hudson said, they occur just over once a week, and it’s only a few weeks before John hears Sherlock screaming himself raw in an Eastern European tongue. That night, he wakes first because of Sherlock’s scream, but then is dragged completely from his slumber by Mina’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends :)  
> SO for the French bits, if the code works correctly, you should be able to just hold your mouse over the words and a translation should appear as mouseover text. Not sure if it'll work on mobile, though, unfortunately....

John wakes up at nine o’clock in the morning, feeling more refreshed than he has since Mina was born. He rolls over comfortably, sighs as he buries his head in the pillows, then abruptly freezes.

There is absolutely no way that Mina slept in until nine AM. 

He flies out of bed, heart pounding, to find an empty crib. He’s seconds from unlocking the bedside table drawer holding his gun when he hears a low voice coming from downstairs, punctuated by the sound of tiny uncoordinated hands trying their hardest to clap. 

He lets out the breath he’d been holding; Sherlock had probably just wanted to let him sleep in. He stands at the door for a few moments, letting the domestic sounds from downstairs wash over him peacefully until his heart rate slows back to normal. He takes a few more calming breaths before heading down to the kitchen. 

The sight that greets him is not one that he had ever really expected to see, but is one that he never realized he needed until now. 

Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the floor, in loose pyjamas with his blue dressing gown spread out on the ground behind him. Mina is sitting in front of him, a sofa cushion on either side of her, pointing and laughing at the skull Sherlock is holding out in front of him.

“[Cet os-là s’appelle l’os ethmoïde. Non, allez, essaie de te concentrer!]()” Sherlock is saying to Mina, who seems to be finding this whole endeavour hilarious. A small smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, and for a wild moment, John wishes he could kiss it. 

He pops quickly into the kitchen to put the kettle on, then comes back out, a smile spreading slowly across his face. 

“What are you two doing?” he asks. Mina turns towards him with a happy _Da!_ when she hears him, and he lifts her into his arms. Her own tiny ones flail around adorably.

He holds her up as she starts examining his hair strand by strand, muttering her observations to herself. He turns to Sherlock. “This is lovely and all, but you know she doesn’t understand French, right?”

Sherlock looks up at him, trying his best to put on a haughty expression, but John sees right through it. “It’s very useful to know a second language, and she is at the perfect point in her life to learn one so that she won’t have an accent when she eventually speaks. I just thought I’d… teach her. Since you’re here. If that’s all right!” he hastily adds.

“Of course it’s all right, I’m not going to stop you from making my daughter smarter,” John laughs. Mina claps excitedly just as the kettle clicks in the kitchen. John puts her back down on her makeshift Mina-sized sofa. 

“Did you want tea?” he asks Sherlock. Sherlock nods, his concentration already back on Mina. He holds up the skull and she squeals, and Sherlock’s wide smile warms John to his very core. 

He heads into the kitchen before he can get too emotional. Somewhere in the background, he hears someone very small aggressively thumping on the pillows, and a deep voice murmurs, “[Non, non, viens ici, mon loup. Non, arrête de faire ça!]()” before both of them break out into giggles, and John’s limited French is enough to make him grin for the rest of the day, even when Sarah asks him if he’s going to try to escape to Panama if the government comes after him again. 

***  
The next few weeks pass in a flash.

John is not sure how Mycroft managed it, but every shift Sarah gives him is in the afternoon. Most weeks, he only has four, but despite this, his income always seems to be just enough to get by.

He decides to ignore it, as it gives him more time with Mina and Sherlock, and on the few mornings when he has paperwork to do, Sherlock is happy to entertain Mina for hours, neither of them seeming to tire of each other’s presence. 

John isn’t one hundred percent certain, but when Mina says _Sh’ock_ , John thinks he hears a French accent. It never fails to make him smile.

One thing that doesn’t seem to be getting better, though, is Sherlock’s nightmares. 

Like Mrs. Hudson said, they occur just over once a week, and it’s only a few weeks before John hears Sherlock screaming himself raw in an Eastern European tongue. That night, he wakes first because of Sherlock’s scream, but then is dragged completely from his slumber by Mina’s crying. 

He drags himself from his warm bed and straight to her crib, where she’s standing, holding onto the railing, and looking at him with a broken-hearted expression. She immediately puts her hands up when he gets close, and he lifts her up, murmuring quiet reassurances in her ear as he bounces her up and down.

She isn’t having it though, and she pushes against his shoulders until she can get a good look at his face. She points towards the door, then says, _Sh’ock?_

John starts bouncing her up and down again. “He’s okay, it’s just a bad dream. We all have bad dreams sometimes, don’t we?” he murmurs to her. 

She nods. John wishes he knew what was going on in her tiny little head. “He’s gonna be okay, yeah? Just like you and me.”

“He’s gonna be okay,” he keeps repeating, until Mina is asleep against his shoulder and the screaming below them has stopped. Only then does he finally go back to bed, staring at the ceiling until the early hours of the morning. 

***  
Needless to say, the next morning is tense. 

John comes down around nine as usual, but this time there are no screaming giggles to welcome him. Instead, he finds Sherlock cradling Mina on the sofa, her head practically in his armpit, one tiny hand thrown possessively over his chest. 

Sherlock’s voice is hoarse as he tells her, “[ Tout va bien aller, ne t’inquiète pas,]()” over and over again.

John decides not to interfere and heads into the kitchen instead, trying not to break their routine. It’s not long before he hears the padding of unstable footsteps behind him, and a small face buries itself in the back of his left knee. 

“Hey! What’s wrong?” He turns towards her and crouches down so neither of them have to strain. 

She shakes her head and hugs him. Sherlock comes to stand in the doorframe. 

“I can… I can sleep elsewhere, if you want. I could go to one of my bolt holes if necessary. I didn’t realize it would affect her like this.” His voice is steady until it wavers on the last word.

John shakes his head, sitting Mina on the counter as he busies himself with the tea. “No, of course not! We’ll figure something out.”

“John, I— She’s terrified. She cried when I came to get her this morning. I haven’t seen her like this before,” Sherlock says. His hands twist together nervously in front of him, the frayed end of the belt of his dressing gown clenched tightly between them.

“She cares about you. I don’t think she was scared of the nightmares, exactly. I think she was scared that something bad was happening to you,” John explains. Sherlock’s eyes widen.

“I don’t—.”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts. “Yours was the third name she learned to say, after _Ma_ and _Da_. It even involves complicated sounds.”

Sherlock’s hands keep twisting. Mina throws a tea bag on the ground and cackles. Both of them smile at her sudden change in mood.

“She loves you. You two didn’t used to see each other that often, but you always entertain her, and she loves it. Of course she would panic if she thought something bad was happening to you.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes looking a bit glassy. 

“Now get her out of here so I can make tea with the remaining tea bags,” John smiles, ignoring the prickling in the backs of his eyes. Sherlock nods and takes Mina into the sitting room; she’s giggling again, and it seems the crisis has passed. 

John turns back to the tea. He’d reassured Sherlock, yes, but they were definitely going to have to do something about Mina, and short of having her sleep in Sherlock’s room, he isn’t sure how they’re going to manage it. 

***  
The rest of the morning passes without incident, and after feeding Mina (who threateningly brandishes toast at Sherlock until he eats it, rolling his eyes), he heads into work. 

Sarah greets him easily at the door, having finally stopped teasing him about Panama two weeks ago, and he walks into his office to wait for his first patient. 

Three patients with absolutely nothing truly wrong with them later, he miraculously gets the answer to his problem. 

A young mother comes in, three children in tow, and two of them wait patiently while she sits the three year old middle child down on the examination table. He heaves a tiny cough, and the bags under his eyes worry John immediately. 

“Hello, young man,” he says as he pulls out his stethoscope. He looks the boy up and down, but there doesn’t seem to be anything outwardly wrong with him other than fatigue.

“Hello,” the boy responds quietly. Everything about him screams _tired_. 

John does a quick examination, but finds nothing wrong other than the boy’s slight fever and cough. 

“He seems all right, just keep him home from school for a couple of days ‘til the fever’s sorted,” he tells his mother. She smiles. 

“Wonderful. Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

He moves to put the boy back on the ground, then hesitates. He turns back towards the mother. 

“There’s just one thing— He seems very tired. Much more than a boy his age usually is. Is everything all right with his sleeping routine?”

She gives him a tired smile. “He’s getting back on track, actually. This is a bit embarrassing, but, well— Basically, my husband is a huge snorer, and recently, the three of them watched an episode of a children’s show that involved an angry tractor, and, well… The noise was incredibly similar to the sound my husband makes when he’s asleep.”

“So what happened?”

She laughs. “He woke up one night, heard the noise, and thought the angry tractor had come for his Mum and Dad. The other two slept right through this, mind. He wouldn’t rest until he knew we were both alright, and since my husband snores every night, he became a bit of an insomniac.”

“But you said he’s getting back on track?”

“Yes! We ended up having him sleep in our bed for about a week, and whenever the Angry Tractor came, he would wake up and realize it was just my husband’s Angry Snoring. He’s fine now, the only trouble is that he got used to sleeping with us, and for another week he was having trouble sleeping in his own room again. It’s been about two days now that he’s finally sleeping properly through the night again. I had to tell him I was going to be protecting his Dad from his own snoring.”

John smiles at the boy. “Sounds like you’re a very brave young man.”

The boy grins sleepily at him. He puts him down with his siblings, and the little family troops out the door. 

John sits down and writes up the case, his mind working. He’ll have to make a few tweaks, but he may have just found the solution to their problem. 

***  
John comes home to find Mina helping Sherlock make dinner. And by _helping_ , he of course means _holding all the vegetables hostage_. 

“[Mina. Donne-moi la tomate. Donne-moi—Non! Donne-moi la tomate,]()” is the first thing he hears before coming into the flat to find Mina standing on the sofa, a tomato clutched in one hand and an onion in the other, cackling madly. When she catches sight of John, she immediately drops them both into Sherlock’s waiting hands, a perfectly innocent expression on her face as she tilts her head and says, _Da?_

John tries to suppress his laughter; he really does. Somehow, it turns into him bent nearly double as he laughs harder than he has in years, as Mina and Sherlock look at him like he’s gone mad. Once the tears stop streaming, he moves into the kitchen to help the two of them finish up the spaghetti sauce. 

Once everyone is finally sat at the kitchen table, John carefully brings up what he learned at the clinic.

“Sherlock?” he starts.

“Mm?” Sherlock manages around a mouthful of spaghetti. He’s been eating a lot more since John and Mina moved in; John likes to think that taking care of Mina is exhausting him just enough to make him work up an appetite.

“You remember this morning, when we were saying that Mina was worried about you at night?”

Sherlock looks up. “I can ask Mrs. Hudson if I can sleep in her flat, John. It’s fine, really—.”

“No, no, that’s not— I think I have a solution. I’m just… I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

“You want me to leave,” Sherlock says. His hands are clenched together again, his dinner forgotten. Despite the tension in his body, his expression is utterly defeated. “It’s not safe for you to go back home, I know it isn’t so… I’ll just. I can stay in your flat. If you want. Until things blow over.”

“Sherlock. No! That’s really not where I’m going with this.”

Sherlock waits. 

“Okay, so today at the clinic…” 

John recounts the entire encounter at the clinic, with the little boy who wanted to save his parents. 

“…obviously, we can’t do it quite that way, because there’s a difference between PTSD attacks and loud snoring.”

Sherlock stares. “What do you propose, then?”

“I’ll sleep in your room.”

“What? How is that supposed to—.”

“Mina is getting too old not to have her own room, Sherlock. She was already sleeping alone at the other flat. So I’ll tell her I’ll be sleeping with you to protect you, like the mother managed to convince her son.”

“John, she’s barely eighteen months old, her son was three _years_ old. How is she meant to understand that?”

John gives Sherlock a _don’t be an idiot_ look. “We’ve only been here a couple of months and she already understands French.”

Sherlock nods. “True, but—.”

“Listen, I don’t even have to actually sleep in your bed. I could just kip on the sofa; it doesn’t matter, as long as she thinks—.”

“No, John. I’ll take the sofa. Your shoulder is bad enough without you exacerbating it all the time—.”

“Look, can we discuss this later? It doesn’t have to start tonight, I was just throwing an idea out there.”

Sherlock nods reluctantly. John looks at the clock and shakes his head. 

“Listen, it’s almost seven. D’you mind getting Mina ready for bed while I get the shopping? I wanted to go after work, but I didn’t want her to go to bed too late.”

Sherlock nods and starts picking up their plates, and John heads out. 

He’ll take the sofa if he has to; Mina and Sherlock’s mental well-being is more important than his bum shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _7AM get Mina, don’t wake John_
> 
> _7:10AM feed Mina_
> 
> _10AM snack for Mina_
> 
> _12PM lunch for Mina_
> 
> _3PM snack for Mina_
> 
> _4PM nap for Mina_
> 
> _5PM wake Mina so she sleeps tonight_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit gets real

John spends an excessively long time staring at the vast biscuit selection at their local Tesco. The Hob Nobs beckon, but John knows that Sherlock’s favourite are the Jaffa cakes, and really, if he can convince him to eat anything at all… He hesitates, tapping his foot in indecision. 

The cupboard they usually use to hide sweets from Mina is large enough for both boxes, he decides, and tosses them both into the cart.

As he’s scanning each item through the automatic check-out, it not-so-slowly dawns on him that nearly everything he’s bought is a favourite of Sherlock’s, from the flavour of yogurt to the fruits he’s selected. He tries very hard to ignore what that means.

Miraculously, the chip-and-pin machine accepts his card, and it’s barely half seven by the time he’s heading back home laden with bags, umbrella wobbling over his head in the sudden rain shower as he tries to balance it and the shopping.

He quietly closes the door in case Mina is already asleep, then trudges up the seventeen steps with the shopping. He can hear Mrs. Hudson puttering about in her kitchen, and not for the first time, the simple domestic peace he can feel all around him baffles him; it’s not something he ever truly thought he would have, but now that he has it, it’s not something he’d ever think of relinquishing. 

Inside the flat, he drops the bags in the kitchen and goes to stand at the bottom of the stairs to his room, listening intently. He can hear the faint sound of Sherlock’s deep voice singing, and his heart clenches. It sounds beautiful, and the mere thought of Sherlock singing lullabies is enough to make him want to run up the stairs, grab hold of him, and never let go. 

Mina, however, is still making perfectly-awake coos, and John almost feels sorry for Sherlock. He’s going to have to sing for quite a while more.

He smiles to himself as he heads back to the kitchen, opening up the fridge to put everything away. He nearly falls over backwards when he sees what Sherlock has done with the shelves.

Everything is neatly partitioned. All of the hazardous materials Sherlock is accustomed to working with have been stored on the bottom shelf in _labelled_ containers. There is nothing on the top two shelves, and they are so clean they are practically sparkling. Mouth dropping open in disbelief, John opens up the freezer below, and finds that much the same has been done there. Sherlock has left ample space to store edible food, and John finds himself wondering if he should have bought more; with this much space, he might be able to do the shopping only once a week, now. 

Not for the first time, John wonders if Sherlock has been taking any cases at all.

He gets everything put away much more quickly than he’d expected. Upstairs, he can still hear Sherlock singing quietly, but now Mina has mostly stopped responding to him, finally letting herself fall asleep. John listens to them for a while, smiling softly, then goes in search of his laptop to entertain himself until Sherlock comes back down.

He cracks it open, then immediately sighs in exasperation. The battery is long dead, and of _course_ Sherlock didn’t think to charge it back up again after killing it. In all honesty, it’s almost reassuring that he didn’t; at least one thing hasn’t changed. 

John pokes around the sitting room desk until he finds Sherlock’s laptop, typing in the password Sherlock keeps taped to it specifically for occasions like these. The screen lights up cheerily, immediately displaying a new spreadsheet titled _Mobility._ There are various columns and numbers displayed, but John can’t seem to make heads or tails of them. He knows Sherlock hasn’t taken a case in a while, and he doesn’t know what information he could possibly be collecting. 

The _Explorer_ tab is open in his programmes; John’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he clicks it open. 

It’s currently in a folder called _Mina Watson_. Within it are spreadsheet after spreadsheet, each with a different title, ranging from _Language_ to _Eating Habits_ to _Mobility_ , each of them with up to twelve different sub-spreadsheets. John stares.

John is still looking at them, his anger slowly growing, when Sherlock finally comes downstairs. 

“She’s asleep. She really didn’t want to, though, she kept talking the whole time until she just— What’s wrong?” he asks when he catches sight of John’s face.

“My daughter is not an experiment, Sherlock,” John says, his voice low and dangerous. Sherlock puts his hands up defensively.

“Those aren’t— I’m not _experimenting,_ John—.”

“No. This is why you haven’t taken any cases, isn’t it? Why you didn’t mind watching her?”

Sherlock tries to step closer, but John stands, and he freezes in the doorway of the flat. “John, of course not, what are you—.”

John keeps his voice quiet so as not to wake his daughter. “I just handed you a free lifetime of experiments, didn’t I? You could do whatever you wanted while I was gone.”

Sherlock looks horrified. “John, I would _never_ — How could you even think that I would—.”

John’s whisper is harsh in his own ears. “ _How could I even think_? You must be joking, Sherlock.”

Sherlock steps back, looking like John’s just struck him. “John. Please.”

“Please what? You’ve been experimenting on my daughter, Sherlock. Jesus, and I thought you were trying to help—.”

Sherlock breaks in, his voice cracking. “Don’t you trust me at all, John?”

“You _left,_ Sherlock! How can I possibly trust you, now!?” he cries, voice unbearably loud despite its hushed tone. 

Sherlock reels back, eyes wide and wounded. He takes a single look at John, then rushes down the stairs, slamming the door as he flees into the rain. 

John sits back down, tossing the laptop onto the sofa next to him. 

He knew it. He knew this was too good to be true. 

He wants to cry. He’d really thought, this time, that he had something good. He wonders if it would be too much of an upheaval for Mina to leave right now, find somewhere new. Mycroft would probably help if he explained the situation to him. 

Sherlock’s phone beeps from where he forgot it on the table. John ignores it. He turns on the telly and starts to mindlessly watch some reality show about hoarders. 

The phone beeps again, more insistently. John flips it over so the screen’s backlight stops distracting him. He doesn’t need this right now. Sherlock should stop ignoring his clients and just go on cases; at least that way he would leave John and Mina in peace.

The phone beeps once more, more loudly, and starts to repeat itself, not letting up until John picks up the phone and physically turns off what turns out to be some sort of alarm. 

The reminder flashes starkly on the screen. _8PM If John isn’t home, put Mina to bed_.

John stares, confused. There is a whole list of reminders on a schedule, and as he scrolls up, he feels his heart sink almost painfully as he realizes just what they are.

As he realizes just how _wrong_ he was. 

_7AM get Mina, don’t wake John_

_7:10AM feed Mina_

_10AM snack for Mina_

_12PM lunch for Mina_

_3PM snack for Mina_

_4PM nap for Mina_

_5PM wake Mina so she sleeps tonight_

The list goes on and on, and John wants to vomit. He opens up the spreadsheets again, feeling sick to his stomach. 

More careful analysis of the first one, _Mobility_ , reveals that the numbers are nothing but a scale from one to ten that Sherlock seems to have pulled from a study done on thousands of infants; it’s cited at the bottom of the spreadsheet. 

Sherlock is keeping track of how well her movements are developing, and the list below is the data from the study, so that Sherlock can make sure she’s hitting her milestones on time.

Opening the other spreadsheets shows much the same thing; each one is just a tracker of her progress in several different domains. One even turns out to simply be a list of her favourite foods, another of her toys. 

John wants to cry. He reads through every spreadsheet, taking it all in, and comes away feeling like a monster.

He looks up at the clock; it’s nearly half nine, and Sherlock has been gone for two hours. 

It’s pouring rain. He had no umbrella, no coat, and—

John stops. Swallows. Feels something like panic rise within him.

He grabs his coat and sprints down the stairs, stopping briefly at Mrs. Hudson’s door to throw her the baby monitor before he rushes outside to get a cab. He pays the cabbie double and prays he can get him to Barts fast enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rain is deafening, but the argument that led them here seems to echo off the very sky. 
> 
> _You left, Sherlock! How can I possibly trust you, now!?_
> 
> Two hours later, and it hurts just as much to think about. 
> 
> John remembers the look on Sherlock’s face, and wonders if it will ever hurt less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so if you follow me on **[tumblr](http://consultingpurplepants.tumblr.com)** , you'll probably have read this already, but there are a few minor changes to make it really properly fit in this story :)

The night-time lighting on the roof of Barts is so bright that John wonders for a second if the sun’s come up. The whole roof is lit up a bright white, the stones appearing much cleaner than they truly are. All around them, the darkness is all-consuming, the brightness of the roof a stark contrast to it. Like this, the pouring rain is perfectly visible, falling in sheets onto the roof and draining right into the gutters. John looks frantically around the bizarre landscape surrounding him, searching for—

There. A tall figure in a white button-down and black trousers, back to John, staring at the ground. Sherlock is standing just far enough from the edge of the building for John to release the breath he’s been holding since he got out of the cab; Sherlock came here to think.

And not to do anything else.

“Wasn’t sure I’d find you here,” John pants out. He doesn’t add the _in time_ that his brain is insisting is an important part of that sentence. He blinks a drop of water from his eye.

“John?” 

Sherlock whips his head towards him, clearly startled, and steps back from where he was looking down at the ambulance station several stories below. 

For a while, the only sound is the rain.

“I wasn’t going to—.”

“I know,” John says.

The rain is deafening, but the argument that led them here seems to echo off the very sky. 

_You left, Sherlock! How can I possibly trust you, now!?_

Two hours later, and it hurts just as much to think about. 

John remembers the look on Sherlock’s face, and wonders if it will ever hurt less.

“I didn’t mean—.”

“It’s all right, John. I already knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you didn’t trust me. It was a consequence I was willing to live with, considering what my other option was.”

John stays silent, unsure of what to say in response to possibly one of the most selfless things Sherlock has ever said. His left fist clenches and unclenches, making his inner tension visible for all to see. 

Sherlock glances over towards the precipice again, and John’s eyes can’t help but linger on his chest; the rain has soaked completely through his shirt, turning it translucent rather than white, and it clings perfectly to Sherlock’s graceful form. His hair is dripping wetly down his back, pushed back from his forehead in an effort to see better in the pouring rain, and it gives a sort of ethereal look to his face. The stark white of the stones around them brings out the colour of his eyes, and they shine through the darkness, the only spot of colour in an otherwise dark world. 

John thinks of Sherlock’s wide smile when he plays with Mina, of the way he _cares_ , and wonders why he always has to destroy everything beautiful in his life. 

“I do trust you,” he tries. Sherlock smiles a bit sadly. 

“You _did_ ,” he corrects, and John hates him for being right. “Then I threw myself off this very building, and you never did again.”

John pulls his coat tighter around himself; wonders why Sherlock had to leave so quickly that he didn’t take his. He has no idea what to say. 

He changes the subject. 

“Why are you up here, of all places?”

The sad smile makes a reappearance. Sherlock trembles a bit, but it doesn’t look like it’s from the cold.

John narrows his eyes. Something is wrong.

“Because you don’t trust me, John, despite my best efforts. I wanted to come back to where it all went wrong.”

“Why?” 

An expression John has never seen before crosses Sherlock’s face. John automatically takes a step towards him, more concerned than he has ever been. Sherlock starts to sway.

“To see if I could have done things differently. To see if maybe I could have come back to—.”

The smile is gone, and Sherlock chokes on his last word. His knees tremble, and suddenly he’s sitting down on the wet rooftop, wet hair draped across his forehead, eyes staring blankly forward. 

“Sherlock?” John cries out, alarmed. He rushes over and kneels down next to him.

He hesitates for a moment, then puts his arms gently around his shoulders.

And that’s all it takes. 

Sherlock’s arms come up and grip him like a vice, Sherlock’s face buries itself in John’s cold, wet shoulder, and his entire body shakes to pieces in John’s arms as he sobs brokenly, the hiccups wracking his entire body, and John feels the guilt crash over him like a tidal wave, unstoppable and horribly destructive. 

It’s like he’s falling apart, and John is the one barely managing to hold the pieces together. 

Sherlock _trusts_ John. There is no reason why John shouldn’t trust _him_.

He holds him tighter. Sherlock shakes harder.

John doesn’t know what the broken man in his arms went through while he was away; he knows only that he saw scars, horrible scars, _torture_ scars, while he was caring for his bullet wound. 

He knows only that rather than welcome him home and thank him for saving his life, John had rejected him with every fibre of his being, isolated him completely, and ignored his increasingly desperate texts and calls.

He knows only that Sherlock is his best friend—

No. 

John shakes his head. If there has to be a moment in time that forces John to stop lying to himself, then this moment is it.

Sherlock isn’t his best friend. 

Sherlock is the love of his life, and he has been destroying him little by little since the day they met. 

In the end, it’s an easier decision to make than he had ever thought it would be.

“Sherlock?” John whispers. The shaking shows no sign of subsiding. 

He wipes his own wet hair out of his eyes, then leans down and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock grips him harder, and John can feel his lips moving against his shoulder. Despite the thunderous sound of the rain, John can hear what sounds like _I’m sorry, please_ over and over and over again, and it nearly does him in. Sherlock shouldn’t be the one apologizing.

He pulls Sherlock away from him abruptly, then regrets it immediately when Sherlock shifts quietly away without protest, like he was expecting this, and curls his arms around his own knees instead, comforting himself as best as he knows how.

As though he’s been forced to before. 

John feels sick.

He sidles closer until their arms are touching, then takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his. 

Everything seems to stop: Sherlock’s shaking, the rain, time itself. 

“John?” Sherlock whispers. 

“You’re my best friend, Sherlock,” John tells their joint hands. “But I’ve been a terrible friend to you.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, possibly to protest, so John squeezes his hand and keeps going.   
“You— You sacrificed yourself for me. You fought all over the world to keep me safe. And I just.”   
John takes a deep breath. “I just threw it all back in your face. I even made you plan my wedding, as if I didn’t know—.”

He cuts himself off, shocked by his own cruelty. In all fairness, he hadn’t been sure until Sherlock’s best man speech, but afterwards? He had been wracked with guilt and regret for months. 

He still is. 

“Didn’t know what, John.”

And now Sherlock isn’t even looking at him anymore, is gently trying to tug his hand away, and, “That you love me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he _does_ yank his hand away despite John’s best efforts to keep it safe and warm within his own. 

“Good-bye, John,” Sherlock says, and John hates that this is the second time he’s said those very words on this rooftop. “Go home. I’ll find somewhere to spend the night.”

“No. No, that’s not what I—,” John starts to explain, but Sherlock cuts in. 

“Not what you meant? How _did_ you mean it, then? ‘Sorry mate, not gay?’ Go _home_ , John, I’ll be fine, and you can find someone else inane to date so you can continue to prove your heterosexuality now that my murderer no longer lives with you.”

John knows he means it to sound cutting, but the rain does little to mask the fact that Sherlock is still crying, his now-empty hand clenched by his knee. 

John takes it between both of his, clinging to it like the anchor it is. “I love you, too, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I’ve made us waste all this time, I married your _murderer_ , I can’t even _begin_ to apologize for—.”

Sherlock is looking down at him with something like awe on his face. John almost expects the sun to come up. “You love me?”

“I— Yes. Yes. I do.”

Sherlock’s face immediately clouds over, somehow darker than it was before. Something like anger seems to be fighting its way past the tears. John watches in horror as Sherlock seems to suddenly have trouble breathing, his breath stuttering in his chest on its way out. 

“Then why would you—,” is all he manages before the sobs burst out of his chest and choke the words from his body, leaving him shaking and hiccupping in the rain.

He pulls his hand away from John again, but this time, John drags Sherlock’s whole body towards himself and holds him. Sherlock shoves him away angrily once, but when John reaches forwards to push the wet hair out of his eyes, Sherlock slumps back into him, his fists clenched against John’s chest, the tears falling anew. 

John feels like his ribs are too tight, like his lungs are empty, like his heart will explode. 

He deserves the feeling.

They stay like that, Sherlock shaking against John’s body, occasionally throwing out an angry _How could you_ —, and John just holds him, watching the rain fall, feeling it drip cold down his back, and wondering how he could possibly have fucked up so badly that he broke the most precious thing in his life. 

Wondering what he’ll have to do to make this okay again.

Wondering if it ever will be.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sound so low it could barely be considered a whisper stops him. “John?”
> 
> John turns back towards the bed, where only Sherlock’s eyes and hair are still sticking out of the top of the blanket.
> 
> “Stay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a tiny bit of comfort for all of you who were yelling at me ;)

By the time they return to the flat, it’s well past midnight.

They had spent nearly two hours on the rooftop, in the end, John holding Sherlock in his arms and apologizing over and over again. Eventually, they had both fallen silent, simply sitting in the rain and _thinking_ , until the guilt and the past had threatened to overwhelm them both and Sherlock had finally asked John to take him home before it did. 

Now, they stand in the entrance hall, Sherlock’s lips slightly blue, his shivering uncontrollable, and John’s doctor instincts kick in. He wraps his arms around him and herds him up the stairs, soaked to the bone despite his coat.

He gets Sherlock into the bathroom, then rushes to fetch some towels. When he comes back, Sherlock is still standing in the middle of the room, unmoving, unsure. 

“Sherlock, I’m really sorry, but we have to— We have to get you out of your wet clothes.”

Sherlock nods slowly, numbly, and makes to unbutton his shirt. His fingers are shaking almost violently, now, and John steps forward when it becomes clear that he won’t be able to do it on his own.

“Can I—.”

Sherlock nods, letting his arms drop down to his sides. John smiles reassuringly at him, then starts unbuttoning the shirt himself. He reaches for one of Sherlock’s wrists at a time, holding his hand gently as he unbuttons the shirt’s cuffs as well. He tugs it out from Sherlock’s trousers, then lets Sherlock remove the rest of it himself. 

They hit the same snag when it comes to removing Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock blushes as much as he can despite the cold, but John nods professionally before reaching down to open his flies. They finish undressing Sherlock together, and John heads quickly over to the shower to adjust the temperature of the water before he gets in. 

After what seems like an eternity, Sherlock finally steps into the tub, giving John another glimpse of the terrible scarring lining his back. John wants to rush in after him and apologize for the next ten years, and even then, he’s not sure it’ll ever be enough.

He opens the door, about to go into Sherlock’s bedroom to clear anything experimental-looking off his bed, but Sherlock tugs back the shower curtain again.

“John?” he whispers, his voice smaller than John’s ever heard it.

“You okay, love?” John asks, closing the door again. He’s suddenly flooded with worry.

Sherlock’s fingers clench in the curtain. “Could you— Could you help me? Please?”

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t elaborate. “D’you— D’you want me to get in with you?”

Sherlock blushes, but nods. John smiles. “Of course.”

John quickly shucks his own clothes as Sherlock averts his eyes. He hangs them on one of the towel racks to dry, but luckily, they aren’t quite as wet as Sherlock’s were. He tugs a little on the curtain when he’s done.

“Are you sure?” 

“Please,” Sherlock whispers, and John steps over the rim of the tub. 

With the curtains drawn, it feels like they’re completely cut off from the rest of the world; they have only each other, and honestly, that’s what John thinks they need right now. Sherlock stands against the wall behind the shower spray, looking unsure of himself, tiny shivers still occasionally wracking his body, and John can’t _stand_ it, this Sherlock stripped of all that makes him _Sherlock_. 

“Come here, love,” he says, holding his hands out. Sherlock practically trips over the shower mat trying to get to him faster. 

Sherlock’s much taller frame still somehow fits perfectly in his arms; Sherlock’s head comes to rest at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, Sherlock’s arms wrap around his entire body, and John’s hands come up to stroke up and down Sherlock’s back. 

“It’s okay, love. It’s all gonna be okay,” John murmurs soothingly. Sherlock’s hands are clenched hard against his back, and John holds him tight until Sherlock’s hands relax and come to rest gently on his shoulder blades. 

John stands back, his arms immediately feeling empty. From the look on Sherlock’s face, he feels much the same way. 

“Can I wash you?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, but he nods. John leans down to pick up Sherlock’s overly posh body wash and loofah. Sherlock is incredibly tall, but John does his best. 

He reaches up with the soapy loofah, the gentle lemony scent he’s always associated with Sherlock nearly overwhelming in this quantity, and starts to scrub his neck. He works his way all around before spreading soap over his shoulders, rubbing gently at his muscles as he passes them. There’s a quiet hum from above him, and John realizes that Sherlock’s eyes are closed and that he looks almost… peaceful, like this. John smiles to himself, a tension he didn’t even realize he had releasing itself from his shoulders. He allows himself to relax. 

He works his way all the way down Sherlock’s chest, pausing for a moment at the tiny round scar below his right pectoral, when the guilt washes over him and threatens to overwhelm him completely. Without thinking, he leans down and brushes a soft kiss over it.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “John?”

John kisses it again, feeling Sherlock tremble slightly when he does. He pulls him close and Sherlock nearly falls into the hug. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John whispers into his hair. Sherlock squeezes him tighter. 

“Turn around?” John murmurs. Sherlock does, letting the shower spray rinse the soap from his front, and John sets to work on Sherlock’s back. 

For the first time, he gives himself the time to truly examine the scars under his fingers; when he’d been here tending to Sherlock’s bullet wound, he had never taken the time to, never mind simply asking Sherlock what had happened. Memories of Sherlock wandering about in a sheet at Buckingham Palace, his perfectly smooth back on display for all to see, come back to haunt him at the sight of what lays there now.

He slowly runs the loofah across each scar, mentally cataloguing what his army doctor brain is telling him are whip scars, knife scars, burn scars, _torture_ scars. There is a particularly nasty burn on his left shoulder blade that looks like someone burnt him with a cigarette repeatedly in the same spot. The keloid tissue around it is a testament to how bad the inflammation must have gotten, and John’s hand clenches hard, soap overflowing over his fingers at the thought of someone doing _that_ to _Sherlock_. 

The loofah brushes over several smaller cigarette burns, but none of the other burn scars are of the same magnitude as the one higher up his back. Lower down, John encounters four long horizontal lines, as though a whip had broken the skin so harshly that they still remain after nearly two years. 

John looks down at how angry they all still look, and the first place his brain takes him is the dining room of the Landmark, at a table for two, where he had thrown this man to the ground on his back.

When these wounds, now well-healed and covered in new, pink skin, were fresh and bleeding.

John feels a wave of nausea so strong that he has to stop, taking deep breaths to calm himself. 

From under the spray, Sherlock raises his head. “I can hear you thinking from here,” he says, and John can hear the sad smile in his voice. 

“I just— I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” he says, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock reaches back to grab hold of his hand.

“You didn’t do this, John. This was my choice, and mine alone.”

John hugs him hard from behind. Sherlock’s hands come up to gently rest on his own.

“Yeah, but I didn’t exactly help you, either. I was such a horrible friend, Sherlock.”

“John, no—.”

John smiles, seeing how circular this conversation is liable to become. 

“For one thing, I probably popped the stitches on half of these.”

Sherlock huffs a surprised laugh. “I thought you’d been in the army. That was the gentlest anyone has ever tackled me to the ground.”

Sherlock turns to face him, and John smiles wetly, holding Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Yeah, well. You probably should’ve been able to deduce what a gentle tackle means.”

Sherlock smiles down at him. “Probably.”

John makes to reach for the shampoo, but Sherlock suddenly shivers and nearly leaps into his arms.

“Hot water’s done,” he manages. John quickly reaches into the suddenly icy spray to shut it off. 

“Hang on, I’ll grab the towels.”

John gets out of the tub, blinking in the suddenly harsh lighting of the bathroom, and quickly towels himself off before returning with the biggest, fluffiest towel they own. He yanks the curtain aside and wraps it quickly around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock stands still and lets John gently run the towel all over his body, even stooping low to let him dry his hair. 

John quickly wraps a towel around Sherlock’s hips, then throws one around his own and leads them both into Sherlock’s bedroom through the adjoining door. 

“John, there’s—,” Sherlock starts, but John has already noticed. 

“This isn’t toxic, is it?” he asks, reaching to pick up the tray and the small collection of beakers upon it. Sherlock shakes his head, and John takes the whole lot and places them on Sherlock’s bedside table. 

He turns up the corner on the duvet and gestures for Sherlock to get in. Sherlock stares.

“You’ve got to sleep, Sherlock. Especially after— after everything,” John tells him. 

Sherlock looks down at the towel around his hips, takes a breath, then removes it, slipping immediately beneath the covers. John leans down to tuck them warmly around him.

He hesitates for a moment, but Sherlock’s eyes are wide and sad and not expecting anything from him at all, so he stoops down again and kisses Sherlock gently on the forehead. Sherlock seems to melt into the sheets.

“Good night, love,” he murmurs. He backs away from the bed and starts to walk towards the door, heading towards his own room. He turns the knob and starts to open it.

A sound so low it could barely be considered a whisper stops him. “John?”

John turns back towards the bed, where only Sherlock’s eyes and hair are still sticking out of the top of the blanket.

“Stay?”

John lets the door shut again. “Of course.”

He drops his own towel, then slips between the sheets with Sherlock. Sherlock immediately rolls over and clings to him for all he’s worth. 

John tucks the blanket around them both.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

John kisses his curls before letting his eyes finally slip shut.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock whispers back. He snuggles closer, lets out a small contented sigh, and neither of them move again until morning.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “NO, DON’T—.”
> 
> The rest of the sentence is in what John assumes is garbled Serbian. He blinks blearily awake to find Sherlock on the other side of the bed, huddled and crying. He reaches for his arm without thinking, and Sherlock flinches so violently he ends up on the floor, duvet wrapped around him as he whimpers in fear and pain. John kicks himself for his own stupidity.
> 
> “Sherlock,” he says, trying to keep his voice firm but soothing. Sherlock’s head jerks up, but he’s clearly still asleep; his eyes are open, but they’re completely unfocused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed the fluff

John wakes up to a tiny voice babbling in his ear. He jerks awake, realizing the chatter is interspersed with calls of, _Da?_

He flips over and realizes that the baby monitor has somehow materialised on the bedside table on his side of the bed. 

Or rather, _their_ side of the bed, as Sherlock has spent the night curled tightly into his side. Even in sleep, Sherlock has an arm slung over John’s chest and is clutching at him much more tightly than John would have thought possible without conscious thought. For a moment, he hesitates.

He is warm, comfortable, and lying next to the man he loves, but his daughter is calling for him, and he has to get out of bed. 

“Sherlock,” he whispers. Sherlock hums briefly, rubbing his nose into John’s shoulder, and it’s so adorable John almost wants to cry. 

Mina calls out slightly more insistently.

“Sherlock!” he tries again, but this time, Sherlock tightens his arm. John sighs, rolling his eyes at how Sherlock can still be just as stubborn even in sleep, then twists and turns until he manages to extricate himself from his grasp. Sherlock makes a disappointed noise, so John shoves his pillow into Sherlock’s arms instead.

Sherlock snuggles up close to it and settles back down to sleep. John watches him with slightly misty eyes.

He grabs the monitor, throws on the clothes from last night (which, thankfully, have dried overnight), and heads for the stairs.

About halfway up, he realizes that something is off. He stares down at the baby monitor in his hands, the one he distinctly remembers handing to Mrs. Hudson before rushing out after Sherlock.

Which can only mean one thing.

John stops, puts his head in his hands, and tries to quell the rising embarrassment at what Mrs. Hudson must have seen this morning when she came in to give it back. 

They’re going to have some explaining to do later.

He gets the rest of the way up the stairs and pushes open the door. 

“Good morning, love!” he says, a smile already on his face, and a wide, barely-toothed grin spreads over the tiny face bouncing up and down in the crib. 

“Dada!” she cries out, putting up her hands. She squeals excitedly when he picks her up, leaving the monitor there as he takes her back downstairs. He sits her on the kitchen counter as he sets up the kettle, and she watches him work with interest. 

He’s so absorbed in the process that he doesn’t hear Sherlock behind him until Mina thunks him over the head with a teaspoon and shouts, “ _Sh’ock!_ ” 

John turns at the sound of Sherlock’s quiet chuckle, and they both smile. Sherlock’s doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and for a moment, John wishes they’d had time this morning to discuss last night. He feels a cold fear grip his heart as he realizes that it’s perfectly possible that Sherlock regrets what happened between them. 

His thoughts’ downward spiral is quickly interrupted by another _thunk_ from the teaspoon. He turns towards his daughter, about to tell her off for her spoon thunking, when she raises both hands towards him and very distinctly shouts, “Tea!”

Everyone freezes. Sherlock and John are both staring at her, awestruck, but Mina doesn’t seem to grasp the importance of what’s just happened. She bounces on the counter, arms still out towards John. “Tea! Tea! Tea!” 

When this provokes no reaction she turns towards Sherlock and hurls the spoon at him. She hasn’t got the arm strength to properly accomplish this, however, and the spoon ends up a pitiful distance away from him. She points towards the mugs, insistent. “[Sh’ock, thé!]()”

Sherlock, stock still, does nothing but blink repeatedly at her, and the whole tableau is so comical that John starts to laugh, head thrown back so quickly he nearly smashes it into the cupboards. 

Mina gives him a disapproving glare, then tries again, waving a tiny fist at Sherlock, who has yet to unfreeze. 

“[Veux thé, Sh’ock! Veux thé!]()”

Sherlock finally moves, as though all of his systems have come back online at once. John feels like a whirlwind is passing by when Sherlock goes straight to the cupboard to get her sippy cup. 

“[Attends un peu, Mina, tu ne peux pas encore boire de thé, mais je vais te chercher un peu de lait pour ton petit déjeuner,]()” he finally says. Mina makes a great show of pouting, but accepts the sippy cup all the same as Sherlock and John stare at each other in awe over the top of her head.

“You were right,” John mouths. Sherlock grins. 

“Of course I was.”

***  
The rest of the day passes relatively quickly, John and Sherlock basking in Mina’s newfound skill of yelling _Want_ in two languages followed by either gibberish, _Tea_ , or vigorous pointing. 

She does eventually tire, however, and by 6:30 all of them are full of food and exhausted. 

John looks meaningfully at Sherlock, who looks down at Mina.

“[Au lit!]()” he announces to her, and she immediately crosses her arms over her chest, her tiny mouth rearranged into a perfect pout. 

Luckily, _No_ is not a word that she seems to have worked out, and John goes upstairs with the two of them to change into pyjamas. With a quick glance at Sherlock, he heads back downstairs, sitting on the sofa quietly as he listens to Sherlock sing softly to Mina until she finally falls asleep. 

Sherlock comes downstairs soon after, dressing gown flaring out behind him like a cape. He jumps straight to the point.

“John, if you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, I completely understand. Last night’s events put you under no obligation to ever—.”

John cuts him off with a smile. “Sherlock, I would like to sleep in your bed tonight. Would you like that? It’s your choice, here.”

Sherlock looks down, but not before John catches the small smile on his lips. “I would like that. Please.”

John holds out his hand, and Sherlock hesitantly steps over to take it. John pulls him down onto the sofa next to him, and Sherlock immediately snuggles into him. 

“D’you wanna just have a cuddle for a bit?” John asks, and Sherlock nods against his chest. John puts the telly on, the news scrolling by quietly as they simply hold each other, Sherlock occasionally trying to push even closer. 

It’s nearly ten pm when John realizes that Sherlock is fast asleep against him; there’s no telling just how long he’s been like that. John smiles down at him, watching his nose scrunch adorably when a single curl falls down to tickle it, wondering what the best way to get them into bed would be. 

Somehow, he manages to manoeuver them both into Sherlock’s bedroom and under the covers, while Sherlock snuffles quietly into his shoulder at variable intervals. He pulls the duvet over Sherlock’s long, lanky form, waits for Sherlock to roll over and cling to him, and falls asleep.

***  
“NO, DON’T—.”

The rest of the sentence is in what John assumes is garbled Serbian. He blinks blearily awake to find Sherlock on the other side of the bed, huddled and crying. He reaches for his arm without thinking, and Sherlock flinches so violently he ends up on the floor, duvet wrapped around him as he whimpers in fear and pain. John kicks himself for his own stupidity.

“Sherlock,” he says, trying to keep his voice firm but soothing. Sherlock’s head jerks up, but he’s clearly still asleep; his eyes are open, but they’re completely unfocused.

“Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John,” he tries. Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Not John. John’s not here. John’s not here I left him in London he’s safe JOHN’S NOT HERE—.”

“Sherlock!” John tries again. “You’re in London. You’re in London with me. With John.”

Sherlock shakes his head, but with less conviction this time. He settles into a crouch, the duvet wrapped around him like armour. His whole body is trembling from the energy required to keep all of his muscles primed and ready to go at any moment.

“You’re in London. You live with me, and Mina. You remember Mina. She spoke today,” he continues. Sherlock’s eyes start to blink.

“Mina…” he murmurs, eyes still unfocused, but looking around, as though he’s trying to remember something, something just out of his reach. “John’s eyes.”

John laughs softly. “Yes. She has my eyes.”

Sherlock blinks harder, and when he finally opens his eyes again, they have their usual intelligent glint. 

“John?”

He seems to take in his position, as well as what John is starting to realize is his own absurdly crouched form on the bed. He sits down properly before his shins start to cramp up.

“You alright?” 

Sherlock looks around, then slowly crawls back into bed. “How did you—.”

John wraps his arms around him, and Sherlock folds himself into them. “I talked you down. Seemed to work. I didn’t want to wake you abruptly, I remember that made it worse for me sometimes.”

“It—It helped. Definitely,” he murmurs.

They both glance over at the baby monitor, its red light blinking silently in the darkness of the room. “Didn’t even wake Mina,” John tells him. Sherlock smiles a bit. 

They lie in silence, neither of them anywhere near getting back to sleep. John stares up at the ceiling, the shadows around him making him brave.

“Did you. Did you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly. 

Sherlock shakes his head at first, then seems to reconsider. “I’m not—I’m not sure. I think it would help, but—I don’t know, John. I really don’t.”

“I could talk first, if you want.”

Sherlock shakes his head again, burying his nose in John’s chest. “Not about your—Not about the war. Could you just. Tell me things I don’t know about you.”

John snorts. “There isn’t much.”

Sherlock pushes up on his elbows, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “There’s more than you would think. Apparently I _do_ miss things. Important things.”

John smiles a bit sadly, reaching up to stroke Sherlock’s hair. “Apparently you do. All right.”

Sherlock lies down again, his head on John’s chest. John runs his fingers through his curls as he speaks. “I’m bi. Not gay. Which is why I always got angry when people assumed. Because, well. I’m not. I do like men, obviously. But not just men. And people tend to forget that bi people exist.”

Sherlock nods. 

“So, yeah. I _have_ dated men. Mostly in uni. I had to hide it from my dad, though. My mum knew, but after the way he reacted to Harry… We just thought it best to keep it under wraps. I dated women, too, obviously,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“And in the army, too. Not just uni.”

John smiles. “See? You always know.”

He feels Sherlock smile back into his t-shirt. “Major Sholto wasn’t just my friend. I don’t think we were… more… necessarily, but I would’ve liked it if things went further between us.”

“What happened?” 

“I got shot. I would’ve loved to get in touch with him afterwards in London, but then there was that whole business with _him_ and he just… left. Retreated from society. It was a nightmare tracking him down for the wedding; Mycroft had to help.”

Sherlock looks up, surprised. “You and my brother seem to enjoy a much closer relationship than I had thought.”

“It was Mary’s idea, actually. Not quite sure what was going on in her head, at the time, but… Yeah. She’s the one who said to call him.”

Sherlock nods, thoughtful. His fingers come up to stroke across John’s chest, and get stuck in the gnarled scar tissue that is still obvious through his thin t-shirt. 

John looks down at him. “D’you wanna see it? Properly, I mean? I’m not as ashamed of it as I was, once. It’s what brought me here. To you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Could I?”

John sits up and shucks his shirt. He quickly lies back down in the same position. “Go ahead.”

Sherlock pushes up on his elbows again, lets his fingers trace around the hardened skin. “Yours is much larger than mine,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, well. Didn’t really have a proper hospital, did we?”

Sherlock looks down at the flesh beneath his fingers. “That’s why the ones on my back are so large.”

John’s breath catches. “No. Not all of them. Some of them are because the people who put them there knew exactly what they were doing.”

Sherlock nods. “That’s true. I’m not sure what Mrs. Hudson told you, but it was a lot of people, actually. Not just in Serbia. Though that was definitely the worst.”

“In what way?” John asks carefully, trying not to push his boundaries too far.

Sherlock continues. “They were trained, for one thing. And they—They used my weaknesses against me. A lot more. In Argentina it was just sloppy knife-work, really. Slovakia as well. But Serbia. They… They knew who I was.”

John slowly runs his fingers down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock curls in closer. 

“They used you,” Sherlock finally whispers. John’s fingers clench in Sherlock’s t-shirt.

“How?” he whispers back. Sherlock presses a soft kiss to John’s bullet scar, then pulls away. 

“I don’t—I’m not ready to talk about that yet. We will, one day, I promise. But just—Not tonight. Please.”

John hugs Sherlock close. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Of course it’s all right, love.”

Sherlock looks up at him. “You keep calling me that. ‘Love.’”

“Should I stop?” John asks.

“No, I—It’s— New. I like it,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyelids finally starting to droop. John runs his fingers through his hair again.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. For everything. I can never even begin to explain how sorry I am,” John whispers into his curls. Sherlock’s hand comes up to grip his. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he whispers. “I’ll never leave you again.”

“And I’ll never leave you,” John whispers back. Sherlock smiles, snuggling down under the blanket.

He murmurs a garbled sort of _I love you_ into John’s t-shirt, and John’s chest feels tight with just how much he adores this extraordinary man.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “’Lo?” he mutters groggily. He looks down at the pillow beside him and his heart sinks when he realizes that the other half of the bed is still empty. 
> 
> “John? Thank god, I was worried something had happened!”
> 
> “Greg? What do you mean?”
> 
> “I’ve just got your text, sorry, case took a lot longer to work without Sherlock around. Did you track him down?”

John wakes to quiet singing (of a sort) coming from the baby monitor near his head. He smiles to himself. 

Of course Mina wouldn’t know that today is Sunday and that they therefore don’t have to get up at seven o’clock in the morning.

Sherlock is already rolling over, his hair mussed adorably. “I’ll go,” he mumbles before nearly tumbling out of the bed. John reaches for him, loving the way that Sherlock’s hand slips automatically into his own.

“Sherlock, it’s fine, I can go! You look exhausted,” he laughs, sliding out of bed. He rearranges the covers quickly, trying to make the bed at least _almost_ presentable. Sherlock shakes his head, halfway to the door already.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles groggily. John lets him go with a grin, then heads to the kitchen to get breakfast ready. 

Just as John is putting the eggs onto plates, Sherlock comes down the stairs with Mina, who is smiling widely and tugging hard on his hair. She seems to have adjusted perfectly to sleeping on her own again; John’s not even sure he’ll have to sit down and attempt to explain this to her. She seems perfectly content cooing at the baby monitor to wake them up. 

Sherlock sits her down in the baby chair before joining John at the table, taking a gulp of tea and wincing when it burns down his throat. 

“You alright, love?” John asks him. Sherlock blushes a bit at the endearment, looking down and smiling into his eggs. 

“Fine. I—.”

“[Sh’ock! Veux thé!]()” Mina suddenly shouts out, pointing imperiously at the mugs. Both of them burst out laughing.

Just as Sherlock is about to turn and explain to her again why this is a terrible idea, his phone chimes insistently, vibrating loudly on the table. Sherlock glances apologetically at John before picking up.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says seriously, and John smiles at the fact that despite his haughty tone, the man himself is sitting at his kitchen table with his hair sticking up in every direction and his pyjama shirt half-rucked up by his dressing gown. John gets up to pick up the plates, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head as he passes by. Sherlock reddens and stumbles over his next sentence, and John loves him impossibly more.

“Les—Sorry, Lestrade. I—.”

Lestrade’s tinny voice sounds through the phone’s small speaker. Sherlock nods thoughtfully, clearly engrossed in the details. Mina points questioningly at him.

“That’s Greg. He’ll probably be wanting Sherlock to go on a case now,” John explains. Mina nods, her thoughtful expression mirroring Sherlock’s so perfectly that John has to look back and forth between them to make sure he isn’t looking at the same person. He ruffles her hair and she squeals. 

“Yes, but have they— Of course they have. Lestrade, you must realize that there is _no point_ in calling me in if Anderson has already been by… Yes, I know he’s changed— I’m glad he’s got his job back— Wait, no I’m not, what am I—.”

John laughs a bit as he does the washing up, listening to Lestrade try to get a word in edgewise as Sherlock berates the efforts of his entire team. Finally, Sherlock sighs loudly, covering the phone’s microphone as he turns towards John.

“John, it’s— It’s an eight. At least.”

John smiles. “That’s fine. Go ahead, love, it’s been ages.”

Sherlock looks uncertain. “Mrs. Hudson isn’t home, she’s gone to her sister’s today, are you sure it’s—.”

“Go, love. It’ll be good for you,” John insists. Sherlock smiles gratefully, and with a guilty look towards Mina, he gets back on the phone.

“Yes, alright, I’ll be there in— Where did you say the body was found? An hour. Yes. _Yes._ Good,” Sherlock tells Greg, hanging up. He gives Mina a peck on the top of the head as he rushes into his bedroom to get dressed. 

Washing up done, John takes Mina out of her high chair. “Sh’ock?” she asks, pointing towards Sherlock’s bedroom. 

“He’s going on a case today, love. You’ll probably see him later tonight.”

“Sh’ock?” she says, her tone slightly different, and John laughs.

“You can’t go with him, Mina. Not just yet.”

She pouts all the way up the stairs, and John decides to let her try to pick out her own clothes to cheer her up. He sits her on the large double bed and holds up top after top, bottom after bottom as Sherlock bangs around in the bathroom just below. Eventually, the front door shuts, and Mina’s eyes widen. She’s distracted for a moment.

“It’s alright, Mina, he’s coming back. Now, which socks did you want?”

Mina ends up wearing a pink t-shirt, bright green leggings, and orange socks. She looks like a neon sign.

For a moment, John wonders if she’s colour-blind.

He stays in pyjamas, because he’s a grown-up and he’s decided he’s allowed to do this sometimes. He pulls out several of Mina’s toys and settles down next to her, watching with interest as she picks out certain ones and rejects others, her tastes changing nearly every day.

He texts Sherlock every now and again, not expecting a response while Sherlock is busy on a case. 

_She’s dressed herself. What do you think? **open attachment**_

_I’ve tracked down some coloured pencils, but she for some reason is only using the purple one._

_She’s spotted the skull. Won’t let go of it now._

There’s a slight crisis around lunch time, when Mina becomes cranky earlier than usual and decides that her spag bol should be on John and not her plate, but once he gets her down for her nap, everything is smooth sailing from there.

_She’s just thrown noodles at me. HELP_

_Down for her nap. I think I need one too. Jesus._

Around six pm, though, he realizes it’s been nearly ten hours of radio silence, and he starts to get a little more worried. 

_Sherlock?_

_How’s the case?_

_You there?_

When Mina is in bed and he’s been watching _Hoarders_ for nearly two hours, he finally caves and texts Lestrade. Sherlock might get upset, but it’s a small price to pay to know that he’s safe.

_Is his highness still with you?_

By the time he finally heads to bed, it’s nearly one in the morning, and his chest is tight with worry. Neither Sherlock nor Lestrade has texted him back, and he can’t help but feel like something must have gone wrong. 

***  
It’s barely five am when his mobile nearly vibrates off the bedside table. He scrambles to answer it.

“’Lo?” he mutters groggily. He looks down at the pillow beside him and his heart sinks when he realizes that the other half of the bed is still empty. 

“John? Thank god, I was worried something had happened!”

“Greg? What do you mean?”

“I’ve just got your text, sorry, case took a lot longer to work without Sherlock around. Did you track him down?”

John sits bolt upright in bed, any and all traces of sleep evaporating. “No, I didn’t. What do you mean it took longer to work without him? He wasn’t with you?”

There’s a loaded pause. 

“John, he never showed up yesterday. I left him probably ten angry voicemails when we were getting desperate, but he never answered.”

John’s heart starts to pound. “He’s not here, Greg. He left, but you’re saying he never—.”

“I never saw him, John. He didn’t show up.”

“Fuck.”

“John?”

“Greg, _he’s not here_. Something’s happened. I’ll keep you updated.”

Heart slamming in his chest, John hangs up on a shouting Lestrade and quickly dials Sherlock’s phone number; he goes straight to voice mail. His heart in his throat, now, he’s in the middle of punching in Mycroft’s number when the man himself calls him.

He feels sick to his stomach; this is not a good sign. With trembling fingers, he answers the phone.

“John, I’m afraid I have some rather bad news; it would be best if you and Sherlock remained in the flat for the time being. I’ll send along a—.”

“Mycroft,” John cuts in. “Sherlock isn’t here.”

“Please try to convince him to return to the flat. It would really be safest if he were there with you,” Mycroft replies, his voice clearly worried. John wants to throw up.

“Mycroft, you don’t understand. He isn’t here. He’s been missing since yesterday morning,” John gets out, the hateful words falling out in a rush. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Mycroft doesn’t reply.

“Mycroft. What’s the bad news?” John asks, his voice low. His left hand clenches involuntarily.

The silence continues. Then—

“Have you tried calling him?”

“Yes, Mycroft. I’ve called, I’ve texted—.”

“Have you contacted Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

The forced casual tone in Mycroft’s voice grates on John’s nerves, and his patience quickly runs out. “ _Mycroft. What. Is. The. Bad. News_ ,” he shouts down the line. Upstairs, he can hear Mina start to move around. He tries to lower his voice again, but his hands are both trembling, now, waiting for Mycroft to say the words he’s been dreading since he came back to 221B. 

“If this has something to do with Sherlock, if he’s in some sort of danger, Mycroft, you have to tell me _now_ ,” he continues, his voice lower, but his tone just as angry. The silence on the other end of the line is becoming deafening.

“MYCROFT!” he shouts again, the need for answers far overshadowing the need for silence.

“John it’s— We were transferring her to a more secure facility, but it seems that one of my security team failed to notice she had a hairpin. I regret to say that he— Severely underestimated her.”

“Who had a hairpin, Mycroft?” 

“Mary, she— She managed to get out of the cuffs with it, killed two of the four guards accompanying her, and hasn’t been seen since. We’ve been trying to track her, but to no avail.”

John’s blood runs cold. “When.”

“Sorry?”

“When, Mycroft, _when!?_ ”

“Yesterday morning, around three am. We’ve already searched the flat you two shared, but—.”

John’s breathing turns irregular. He doesn’t notice. “She has him.”

“John, let’s not—.”

“What, Mycroft, have you gone daft!? _He didn’t come home yesterday and he isn’t answering his mobile, where else would he be!?_ ”

Mina starts crying upstairs, and he kicks himself for losing his temper. 

“I’ll call you back,” Mycroft says quietly, and promptly hangs up. John nearly throws his phone at the wall in anger. 

Mary has Sherlock. 

Mary has Sherlock

Mary. Has. Sh—

His mobile rings again. He picks up faster than he knew he was capable. “John. Stay put. I’ve put the Met on it. Do not leave the flat.”

John starts to protest, but Mycroft beats him to it. “I repeat, _do not leave the flat_!”

“Mrs. Hudson got back last night, I can join the rescue team, I’m not completely useless, I _did_ train with the British Army,” John rattles off. “I can leave Mina downstairs with Mrs. Hudson and I’ll help them, I’ll help them find him.”

“John—.”

“Don’t do this to me, Mycroft. Don’t make me sit here while he’s in danger.”

Mycroft sighs. “Alright. Just, please, John, promise me—.”

“Anything, Mycroft, anything—.”

“Be careful. He would never forgive me if I allowed any harm to befall you.”

John pauses. Tears threaten to fall. “I’ll be—I’ll be careful. For him.”

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft hangs up. True silence falls; even Mina has stopped crying.

John looks down at Sherlock’s pillow and finally lets himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what you get for constantly demanding Mary's whereabouts ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My _point_ , John, is… What if we shouldn’t be looking for him? What if she’s just… I dunno—.”
> 
> “Dunno _what_ , Sally?” John demands, raising his voice slightly. Anderson’s head jerks up a few desks over and he stands, coming over. John wishes everyone would just leave.
> 
> “Well, what if she’s just chucked him in, John? Into the Thames?” Sally cries. “What if there’s no point searching? Shouldn’t we tell Lestrade to send a team out to search the—.”
> 
> John’s fist is winding up before he can even think about it, but to his surprise, he doesn’t get to land his hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit gets even realer

John quickly finds that being part of Lestrade’s team doesn’t make it any easier to deal with the fact that Sherlock is missing. 

His daughter’s accusing glare as he left her at Mrs. Hudson’s that morning haunts his every moment. The thought of his empty bed makes him watch the surveillance footage with twice as much concentration, despite the fact that he developed a fierce headache hours ago. The thought of what Mary has planned for Sherlock forces him through late into the night.

All around him, Lestrade’s officers are working as well, but as the day wears down, so do their tempers. There is shouting, there is paper-throwing, and John finds himself putting headphones on to focus on the tapes he’s been assigned to watch. No one leaves the station, no one learns anything new, and John feels absolutely and utterly _useless_. 

If anything, being part of the team actually makes it worse, because he can’t go off on his own and track down his wife. 

His _wife_ , who has taken from him the only person he has every truly loved.

He nearly slams his forehead onto the desk in frustration, his fist clenched around the computer mouse. Instead, he clicks on to the next file, easily his hundredth today, and forces himself through it.

For Sherlock.

***  
Late into the night, he hears someone ask Lestrade if he’d thought to check the GPS on Sherlock’s mobile. Lestrade quickly fires back that it’s encrypted, and they’re working on getting it decrypted, but it may take several more hours.

John calls Mycroft. 

Lestrade receives the decrypted GPS data within the hour, and not for the first time, John wonders what they would have done if Sherlock’s brother wasn’t the British government. John watches again as a man in a blue baseball cap gets out of his car and walks down the street. There is nothing remarkable about the man, the street, or even his hat. 

“John?” Lestrade calls from his office door. “Could you come over here?”

John abandons his hundred and fiftieth perfectly ordinary tape and stands, stretching, hating the pops and creaks his bones make when he does. Lestrade is waiting for him at his desk, a sheaf of papers in his outstretched hands.

“Yeah?” John asks. He sits down in the padded chair in front of Lestrade’s desk and nearly melts into it, the comfort level far superior to the hard plastic one he’s been sitting in since six o’clock this morning.

“It’s… Not good,” Lestrade says. He hands over the sheaf. “All we know for sure is that he hasn’t left London.”

Sure enough, as John scans the papers in his hands, he can see that Sherlock’s GPS signal functions perfectly at first. He’s in Baker Street for the first two sheets, and John almost smiles, thinking of all the time they spent together in those few hours. As he turns the page, though, Sherlock’s coordinates leave Baker Street and accelerate considerably, heading towards Brixton, if his guess is useful at all. 

“Brixton?” he asks, glancing up at Lestrade. Lestrade nods.

“Yeah. That’s where the body I wanted him to examine was. So we know he was definitely heading towards the crime scene before he disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“Keep reading,” Lestrade answers grimly. John keeps scanning through the papers.

Just before he crosses over to the South Bank, the coordinates stop. John looks up.

“Do you have the rest?”

Lestrade shakes his head, looking stricken. “That’s it. That’s all we have.”

John’s heart pounds. “That can’t be it.”

“It is. I know she was your wife, but according to what Mycroft sent—.”

John looks away. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s an assassin. Probably not a particularly moral one, either.”

Lestrade pats his hand reassuringly. “She knew what she was doing, John. She wouldn’t let something as trivial as a GPS-equipped phone stop her from getting what she wanted.”

John pulls his hand back and hands back the papers. “I’ll go back to watching tapes, I guess.”

Lestrade nods, and John heads back to the desk he was assigned, his heart in his shoes. He hears a noise from behind him and turns.

“You know, the GPS signal stops just before the bridge.”

“Yeah, what’s your point, Sally?” he asks Donovan, whose unwelcome presence has just materialised over his shoulder. 

“My _point_ , John, is… What if we shouldn’t be looking for him? What if she’s just… I dunno—.”

“Dunno _what_ , Sally?” John demands, raising his voice slightly. Anderson’s head jerks up a few desks over and he stands, coming over. John wishes everyone would just leave.

“Well, what if she’s just chucked him in, John? Into the Thames?” Sally cries. “What if there’s no point searching? Shouldn’t we tell Lestrade to send a team out to search the—.”

John’s fist is winding up before he can even think about it, but to his surprise, he doesn’t get to land his hit. 

Anderson comes up behind Sally and starts to drag her away. John’s mouth drops open at the show of support. 

“Come on, Sally. You aren’t helping,” he murmurs, and the two of them disappear. John sits back in front of the rapidly-blurring screen, the thought having never occurred to him that Sherlock might just be… dead. 

Tossed into the river like so much rubbish. 

The nausea hits him before he can stop it, and he sprints into the gents’ before vomiting the little food he’s eaten today into the toilet. His breathing gets shallower and shallower until his head is spinning. He’s barely holding himself up, his hands braced on the edges of the toilet, his arms trembling with the strain. 

Sherlock can’t be dead. 

They’ve only just found each other properly.

Sherlock can’t be dead.

His breathing gets deeper, slowly, but he finds he’s still unable to stand. He has no idea how much time has passed when Lestrade finally enters the loo. 

“John? Are you in here?”

John manages a feeble, “Yeah,” that has Lestrade rushing into the stall to find him. He’s not sure what he looks like, but it can’t be particularly good, judging by Lestrade’s facial expression.

“Jesus, John, I’ve been looking for you for half an hour! Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes creased with concern. He reaches for John, and John gratefully takes his hand and lets himself be hauled up to a standing position. 

“It’s nearly half one in the morning, you have to go home, John. You’re of no help to him in this state, no matter how much I know you’ll hate me for saying that.”

John shakes his head. “No, no, you’re right. I need to sleep. God knows how often I was after him to sleep while he was on a case.”

He tries to take a step, but ends up staggering. Lestrade catches him before he falls.

“Listen, John. I’ll drive you back, you’re in no state to get home by yourself.”

John nods, too tired to do much else. Lestrade bundles him into a panda and gets him back to the dark, silent flat. 

The empty bed both beckons and repulses; he isn’t able to sleep until he rolls over to Sherlock’s side.

***  
The next morning, the nightmare continues when he walks into Mina’s room.

Toddlers aren’t stupid; they can sense when something is wrong, and Mina is more observant than the average child. When he pushes open the door, she’s standing by the bars of her crib, her eyes widened in anticipation, and her expression immediately clouds over when she realizes he isn’t Sherlock.

“Sh’ock?” she asks once, curiously. John feels his heart break a little.

“He’s not—he’s not here, love. But don’t worry, we’re looking for him.”

Her little face darkens. “SH’OCK!” she shouts, bracing herself on the edge of the crib for emphasis. John feels his eyes dampen and tries to hold back the tears.

“We’re looking for him, love. We’re looking for him,” he tries, but now Mina is crying, too.

He picks her up amid screams of, “[VEUX SH’OCK VEUX SH’OCK VEUX SH’OCK,]()” gets her dressed, and brings her down to Mrs. Hudson’s. 

She’s still sobbing when Mrs. Hudson opens the door. “Oh, John. Hand her over, the poor dear.”

John holds her out and she practically jumps onto Mrs. Hudson. She refuses to look at John. “I’ve tried—.” His voice breaks. He starts again. “I’ve tried telling her we’re doing our best, but she won’t—.”

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head sadly. “Oh, John. She’s smart, but she’s still too young. All she knows is that he isn’t here. He’s practically her second father, isn’t he?”

John tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. “He is. He is, Mrs. Hudson, and I’ve been such an idiot, it took us so long to get here, and now he’s—.”

“John Watson, you stop that right now,” she says. John startles at her suddenly hard tone. “You are going to find that man, and you are going to bring him home. Is that clear?”

John nods, his back gone military straight. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Good. Now you go out there and find him.”

John turns and heads out, full of determination, trying not to think about the fact that his daughter still isn’t looking at him.

***

The second day of searching doesn’t go much better than the first. There is more tension in the station today, and everyone is on edge. John focuses on the security tapes, but halfway through his fourth one, he starts to wonder just what the point of all of this is. He tries to confront Lestrade several times throughout the day, but the man is busy all the time, fielding calls from all of the officers and even breaking up two fights. 

The tension is at an unbearable level when Donovan comes back to his desk around the end of the day.

“Got any leads, then?” she asks, sitting in the chair beside him. He does his best to remain civil.

“No. I’ve watched hundreds of these bloody tapes and not a single thing seems out of the ordinary so far,” he says, rubbing his eyes. The screen is becoming blurry again.

“Have you watched any footage from the bridge yet?”

John turns towards her, fighting a childish urge to simply knock over her chair. “Yes, Sally, I have. She’s not on there chucking a body into the river for the entire city to see, you do realize this happened in broad daylight?”

Sally leans in. “Not quite. He went missing in broad daylight, yeah, but how do you know she didn’t come back later to get rid of the body?”

John’s hand clenches involuntarily into a fist. He wills it to stay on his thigh. “Thanks for your input, Sally, but I’ve watched the night tapes, as well. They’re clean.”

She gets up to leave, shrugging casually. John wants to scream. “All right then. Don’t shoot the messenger; our job is literally to come up with all of the possible scenarios, including the worst case ones.”

She saunters off. John turns back to his tapes.

“Don’t let her get to you, mate. She gets like that when she’s frustrated,” Lestrade says behind him. John turns again, his neck starting to hate him.

“Does she have to go around scaring the shit out of everyone just ‘cause things aren’t going her way?”

Lestrade shrugs. “We all cope in our own way. Just ignore her.”

He walks away.

John leaves at two am, this time, feeling more useless and lost than ever.

***  
The next morning, Mina seems to have decided that the more French she speaks, the more likely it is that Sherlock will come back. 

All this actually results in is more frustration for John. 

“Mina, please, just—.”

“[Où Sh’ock? Veux Sh’ock. OÙ SH’OCK!?]()” she screeches when John isn’t more forthcoming in his answers. 

She starts crying when John makes to take her out of the high chair, putting her arms up but away from John, screaming, “[VEUX MONTER VEUX MONTER VEUX MONTER]().”

John wants to be proud of her new words, he really does, but they just make him miss Sherlock more, and he’s quite frankly a mess when he finally gets Mina down to Mrs. Hudson’s, who, being an angel, makes no comments on John’s unkempt hair and greasy skin. 

He’s just walking into Lestrade’s office to ask him if he can do something more useful today than review endless security tapes when his phone beeps.

He ignores it the first time, but when it vibrates again insistently, he catches Lestrade’s eye and realizes it could be something important. 

He pulls it out, but when he sees who the text is from, he drops his mobile on Lestrade’s desk like he’s been burned.

“What is it?” Lestrade asks, worried. John picks up the phone with shaking hands and opens the first message.

_Can’t believe you’ve just left him like this for three days_

There’s a picture attached, and John holds his breath as he opens it. He turns it towards Lestrade. 

Sherlock is standing in the middle of a darkened room, his arms stretched out on either side of him and tied to two concrete pillars. His head is drooped down, as if he were exhausted, and in the background, John can see two floodlights. Closer examination reveals two more in the bottom of the picture, pointed directly at Sherlock’s face. 

Sleep deprivation.

John’s fists clench; it’s one thing for Sherlock not to sleep on a case. It’s quite another for him to be purposely forced not to. 

Lestrade looks at him. “He’s not hurt. At least from what I can tell. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

John looks closer, and sure enough, there doesn’t seem to be a mark on Sherlock’s body, at least from this angle. The relief he feels is almost overwhelming. 

“Do you know where that is?” Lestrade asks. “I feel like she would have chosen somewhere of significance to you.”

“What do you mean?” John asks, squinting at the picture, trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock is standing in the middle of it, hands outstretched. 

“Criminals all tend to fit a certain profile. She fits the profile of someone who would’ve chosen somewhere so obvious, you would never think to look there. To make you even more frustrated,” Lestrade starts to explain. “Somewhere—.”

“OH!” John cries out. He is filled with fury so quickly it knocks the breath out of him. “Those bastards. Those _bastards_ —.”

He stumbles backwards, knocking a chair over in his haste to call Mycroft’s number. Lestrade grabs his hand before he can do anything rash. “What, John, _what_!?”

“It’s the cellar! The cellar below our old flat! Mycroft said they’d searched the whole place, but he clearly didn’t even bother with a fucking floor plan, he could’ve found him _on the first day_ , the _bastard_ —.”

_Ping._

Both of them look down at the mobile in John’s hands. The screen lights up again, this time with a single text.

_I’m done with him. If you want him back, that is._

John’s breath catches. What does she—

_Not sure you will, now._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, no. I would never lie to you,” John says desperately. Sherlock looks away.
> 
> “You’ve lied to me since day one; why would this lie be any different?”

It takes what feels like an eternity for the ambulance and police cars to get to John and Mary’s old flat. John’s heart pounds a mile a minute the whole way there, despite Lestrade’s repeated reassurances that Sherlock appeared unharmed in the photo.

Despite this, John can’t help but wonder what Mary did instead of physically harming him.

It’s not a possibility for her to have simply let him be; she would never do something so ridiculous as to hide Sherlock in a cellar for three days and do absolutely nothing to him. He remembers the large floodlights he had seen in the photo, and wonders what she did to him while he was in a weakened, sleep-deprived state. 

The panda pulls up in front of their flat in the slowest record time John has ever felt. Several officers rush into the building first, Lestrade holding John back until the building is cleared.

For once, John doesn’t object; he remembers what Sherlock told him about the snipers. 

He also remembers that Mary _is_ one. 

Eventually, the officers come out again, crying, “All clear!” 

They gesture to the ambulance workers, and John follows right behind them. He knows that in this capacity, he’ll be useful, at least. 

They hurry down into the cellar, John using his old key to open the rusty latch in the kitchen floor. Two paramedics head down ahead of him, flashlight beams waving in the darkness. John follows them quickly and finds the light switch downstairs, the old lightbulb blinking slowly back to life with a horrible buzzing noise. 

Sherlock is in the exact position he was in in the photo; he hasn’t moved an inch, and he isn’t asleep, despite the darkness and the removal of the floodlights. 

He’s muttering to himself, and John’s heart sinks as he sees Sherlock’s arms in proper detail for the first time; a grainy mobile image taken in darkness can only show so much. 

Other than the obvious strain on them from being stretched out for so long, there are also several track marks. He clearly didn’t administer anything to himself, and John feels his blood run cold at the thought of what Mary may have given him. One of the paramedics nods at him, probably hoping he can talk Sherlock down, so he steps forwards, hands up to show he’s unarmed. 

“Sherlock?” he whispers softly. Sherlock shakes his head, face still down. He abruptly starts muttering something different. 

John steps in close, and for the first time, he can make out what he’s saying. 

_Not real not real not real not real not real_

“Sherlock, please. It’s me. I’m real,” he tries, keeping his voice low. Sherlock’s head shakes almost violently, leaning as far away from John as his bonds will allow. 

_Not coming of course he’s not coming why would he come he’s not real this isn’t real don’t let him near it’s not him it’s not real_

John feels tears fill his eyes. He reaches out for Sherlock again, but he flinches violently away, the ropes chafing against his wrists. John lets his hand drop and turns to the paramedics.

“Whatever she gave him is still in his system, clearly,” he tells them, fighting to keep his voice level. “We have to get him into detox, figure out what it is.”

The paramedics spring into action, and John leaves the cellar, not wanting to agitate Sherlock further. He practically sprints up to Lestrade.

“John?” Lestrade asks, looking surprised. “What are you doing up here?”

John’s hand starts to shake. He clenches it against his thigh in an effort to contain it. “She—She gave him something. The picture was too grainy to see the track marks, but they’re there. It’s still in his system, but he gets… agitated. When I get close. I don’t want to make this any more stressful for him.”

Lestrade looks puzzled. “What d’you mean, agitated?”

John looks down. “He doesn’t think I’m real,” he says, his voice losing all semblance of stability. “I don’t know what she gave him, what she said to him, but I have a really bad feeling about this.”

Lestrade puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Look, they’re bringing him up now, we’ll get him into hospital and get it all sorted, yeah?”

John looks up, and finds himself looking into eyes that are almost as worried as his own. He tries to smile. “Yeah, yeah. We will.”

He tries not to look at the perfectly still figure on the gurney, still muttering quietly to itself. 

***  
In the hospital, things are only marginally better. They restrain him because the doctors aren’t sure what his current mental state is, and John watches in mild horror as they attach the padded cuffs to his wrists. Normally, they would sedate him, but as they don’t know what’s already in his system, they don’t want to take any chances.

Mycroft, as usual, has a say in the matter, and the tox screen comes back much more quickly than it normally would. The doctor comes in, labs in hand, his face impassive.

“What is it, then?” John asks, his anxiety getting the better of him. The doctor gives him a sympathetic look.

“Scopolamine. He’s had several massive doses over the last three days, according to these results.”

John’s mouth drops open, and he puts his face in his hands. “Shit.”

The doctor looks at him. “Do you know why he might have needed such a large dose?”

Lestrade looks completely lost, and John makes a mental note to explain as soon as the doctor leaves the room. “He’s a former addict. He’s built up a resistance to a pretty wide array of drugs,” John tells the doctor. He nods. 

“We’ll keep him here for a while, but it will only take a few more hours for it to work its way out of his system, especially with his history. He has nothing else wrong with him, so after that you’ll be allowed to take your husband home,” the doctor tells John. John doesn’t bother to correct him, and Lestrade gives him a surprised glance as the doctor leaves the room. 

“Scopo—what?” Lestrade asks. “Not an illicit substance I’ve heard of.”

“Because it isn’t one,” John says. “It’s a drug typically used in end-of-life patients to stop them choking on their own phlegm when their lungs stop working right. A very slight sedative, if you will.”

Lestrade still looks confused. “Then why—I don’t understand.”

“It also induces a very suggestible state,” John says. “I don’t know what she told him while he was on it, but he was also sleep-deprived and frightened. I don’t know—I have no clue what—.”

He stops, the fear choking him. Lestrade looks at Sherlock.

“John. Listen. We won’t know for sure what’s wrong until he wakes up. So let’s wait. Stop thinking about it. Want a coffee?”

John nods slowly. Lestrade leaves.

The room feels silent and empty without his presence. On the bed, Sherlock lies unmoving, his chest slowly rising and falling with his breathing. John goes to sit on the hard plastic chair next to the bed and takes Sherlock’s hand. 

“Love? It’s me,” he whispers. Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

“Please wake up,” John tries. “I’m real, I promise I’m real, I’m right here.”

Sherlock remains asleep.

When Lestrade comes back, they’re still holding hands, and Lestrade takes a single look and keeps his mouth shut. 

***  
Two tense hours later, Sherlock starts to stir. John squeezes his hand a little harder, and Sherlock slowly blinks awake, taking in his surroundings with small, slow head movements. 

“Sherlock?” John asks carefully, wary of another episode like the one in the cellar. 

Sherlock looks at him, but he seems perfectly calm, this time. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks confused. 

“Oh, shit. Water,” John says in a rush, looking around for a cup. Looking around, he finds one and hands it to Sherlock, who gulps it all down in one go. He clears his throat, never taking his eyes off John.

“Why are you here?” he finally croaks. 

John glances over at Lestrade, then decides he can’t care less. “Because I love you, you git. Where else would I be?”

Sherlock looks bored. “Oh. Still going on about that, are you?”

John’s shocked expression must get through to him, because he doesn’t say anything further. Lestrade stands, waving his hand awkwardly towards the door. “I’ll just… Let the doctors know, shall I?”

John nods, then turns back towards Sherlock. “They said you would be all right once the drugs got out of your system. I’m gonna take you home now.”

Sherlock nods, tugging meaningfully at the fluffy manacles around his wrists. “John, could you, um—.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course.” John hurriedly undoes the belts holding them shut, and Sherlock rubs at his wrists, which are still slightly chafed from Mary’s ropes. 

The doctor comes in with the discharge papers, and they leave in record time, leaving John to wonder just how much influence Mycroft truly has. 

The whole way home, Sherlock watches John.

***  
The first odd thing that John notices is that Sherlock’s attitude towards Mina and Mrs. Hudson is completely unchanged. 

There is a tearful reunion with Mrs. Hudson where he pecks her on the cheek and smiles at her like she’s the sun, followed by another with Mina, who buries her face in his neck as he carries her upstairs. 

John feels vaguely like he’s being left behind in the dust, and he can’t even begin to comprehend it. 

The rest of the evening passes so normally that John has to pinch himself to believe it. He makes dinner while Sherlock and Mina play in the sitting room, listening to their quiet conversation, and he still can’t quite believe that this is really happening.

“[Quoi, je te laisse toute seule pendant trois jours et tu changes complètement l’ordre de tes jouets?]()” John hears behind him, followed by giggles, and he can’t help but smile into the stew he’s had simmering for the last few minutes. 

Dinner is uneventful, and John does the washing up when Mina demands that Sherlock be the one to put her to bed, which Sherlock does with a smile. John doesn’t understand.

When Sherlock comes downstairs, though, his face is troubled. 

John waits. 

“John, I’ll just—You can have the bed, tonight. I’ll take the sofa.” 

John’s perplexed expression seems to anger him. Sherlock’s face clouds over. “Listen, John, it’s been lovely, but you don’t have to do this for me. You know you’re welcome to live here as long as you need, but I don’t need your pity while you’re here as well.”

“My pity!? What are you talking about, Sherlock, I love—.”

“NO!” Sherlock shouts abruptly. “No. You found me on a rooftop in the rain and thought I was going to jump to my death; you said what you had to in order to get me home. I appreciate it, really, but isn’t this enough, now?”

“Sherlock, no. I would never lie to you,” John says desperately. Sherlock looks away.

“You’ve lied to me since day one; why would this lie be any different?”

John’s mouth drops open, but he can’t think of anything to say in his defense. 

“I know you’ve been trying to hide your search for a new flat from me, but really, John, it’s fine. I survived before I met you, I survived after you moved out once, and I’ll keep surviving after you move out again. I’m not fragile, and I don’t need your pity.”

“Sherlock, I love you,” John says, his voice cracking. Sherlock smiles sadly. 

“I’m fine, John. Really. Now go get some sleep, we both need it.”

He goes into his bedroom, digs out a blanket, and collapses onto the sofa, facing away from John. 

The conversation is obviously over.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they hadn’t been so dense.
> 
> If they hadn’t taken quite so long.
> 
> Where would all of that have led? What path were they already on, before they’d both completely cocked it up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun for you, friends <3

John wakes up to the sound of Sherlock and Mina bickering in the sitting room, and for a moment, everything seems so normal that he almost forgets that he slept alone last night. Despite having only spent two nights with Sherlock by his side, the bed seems too wide, too empty.

He opens the bedroom door just as the argument starts to escalate. 

“[Os! Os, Sh’ock, os!]()” Mina is shouting insistently. Sherlock seems to be stuck on semantics.

“[Non, c’est un crâne. Dit ‘crâne,’ mon loup. ‘Crâne,’]()” Sherlock is trying to explain. Mina throws a crayon at him; Sherlock gracefully dodges it.

John catches Sherlock’s eye, grinning widely, but Sherlock just looks away, focusing on Mina again, and John’s heart plummets into his slippers. John heads into the kitchen before Sherlock notices that his breathing has gone rather erratic.

In the kitchen, he tries to drown out the adorable background chatter by filling the kettle and praying for it to boil as loudly as possible. He rests his head against the fridge. 

He has no way of knowing what Mary told Sherlock while he was under the influence of the scopolamine, short of actually asking Sherlock, and Sherlock seems to be less than forthcoming. It seems to have been something about John not truly loving him, but there’s no way she could have convinced him of that this easily, despite the drugs in his system, unless—

Unless a framework for that lie already existed in Sherlock’s mind. 

John wants to cry. Instead, he valiantly sits through breakfast, feeds his daughter some toast with her favourite jam, and tries hard to smile as she tries her best to feed Sherlock. 

***  
Once the washing up is done and Mina is dressed (by Sherlock, this time, to her dismay; he _did_ let her pick out her socks, though, and it’s obvious from the way that the pattern matches absolutely nothing else in her outfit), he turns to Sherlock with a serious expression on his face.

Sherlock looks concerned. “John?”

“Sherlock, would you mind taking Mina down to Mrs. Hudson’s for a while? We need to talk.”

Sherlock’s face falls, but he nods, hugging Mina a little closer to him as he heads for the stairs. John wonders what he thinks this is about. 

He learns rather quickly when Sherlock comes back upstairs, bursts through the sitting room door, and asks, “So where’s the new flat, then?”

John shakes his head, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat at the expression on Sherlock’s face. His eyes are wide, his hair looks like he was tugging on it just now, and he refuses to meet John’s eyes. 

If John needed the confirmation, it’s clearly there. Sherlock still loves him; he just doesn’t think John loves him in return.

“There’s no new flat, Sherlock. I’m not looking for one.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Why not? John, Mina needs to grow up in a stable environment with parents who love her, it makes no sense to keep her here when—.”

“Sherlock. What she has here is a stable environment with parents who love her. At least that’s what I thought,” John says. Sherlock’s eyes widen, but he shakes his head.

“That’s not—.”

“Are you saying you don’t love her, Sherlock? Because you’ve been doing a hell of a job pretending you do, if that’s the case,” John interrupts before Sherlock can say something that will actually bring him to tears. 

Sherlock looks down. “Of course I do. She’s—She’s you. I see your eyes every time I look at her. But she’s also so much more than just a smaller you. She’s her own person, she’s so smart, she’s so _stubborn_ ,” he says, a little dreamily, with the ghost of a smile on his face. “But this isn’t. This isn’t good for her.”

John pats the sofa cushion next to him. “Sit down. We can talk this over.”

Sherlock hesitates. John pleadingly puts out his hand, already missing Sherlock’s former closeness. Sherlock looks at it, then walks slowly over and sits down, far enough from John that they aren’t touching. John watches him calculate the exact space necessary, and wonders just how he managed not to notice this during the first year and a half they lived together, and how he managed not to understand the forlorn expression Sherlock is shooting at his hand right now, despite the fact that it’s one he’s seen many times before. 

He holds out his hand, but Sherlock doesn’t take it.

“Sherlock. I’m not looking for a new flat because I’m perfectly happy here. Unless you want me to leave.”

Sherlock looks down. “I know you’re happy _now_ , John, but soon enough you’ll miss having relationships with people and you’ll want Mina to have another parent.”

John shakes his head, trying to make his tone as confident as he can. “Sherlock, I’m happy now because I _do_ have a relationship, with someone I love deeply, and someone I hope will be Mina’s other parent in the future.”

Sherlock reels back, the hurt in his eyes evident for even John to see. He looks away, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “I’m glad you’ve met someone. It’ll be good for Mina.”

John tries to grasp his hand, but Sherlock pulls it away. “Sherlock, I haven’t met _someone_ , it’s _you_! It’s always _been_ you!”

“ _I don’t need your pity, John!_ ” Sherlock shouts, rising from the sofa to tower over John. “Thank you for talking me off that roof, really, _but you can stop now_!”

John looks up at him, craning his neck to see into his eyes. Sherlock glares down, refusing to back down. “Is that what she told you?”

“What?”

“Is that what Mary told you?” John tries again. Sherlock takes a step back.

“She didn’t—That’s not—.”

“But is it her who told you that? Because I never said that, Sherlock. I’ve never even _thought_ that before,” John says firmly. Sherlock looks from John to the door, fear in his eyes.

“No, it was—You said—,” Sherlock stutters.

“No. I never said that, Sherlock. You’re the genius here, not me,” John says, approaching Sherlock slowly. Sherlock backs into the stairs up to John’s room and freezes. 

John looks up the stairs, then back at Sherlock, and suddenly gets a brilliant idea. He rushes up the stairs, Sherlock right behind him.

“John? What are you doing?”

John pulls out the duffels he’d brought with him and starts shoveling all of his belongings into them. Sherlock flits about frantically behind him.

“I’m moving,” John announces. Sherlock stops. 

“You just—You just said there wasn’t another flat,” he says, his voice small. 

“I’m not moving to another flat,” John tells him. He throws the duffels over his shoulder and walks back downstairs. 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says behind him. 

“I’m moving into your room,” John says. Sherlock freezes about halfway down the stairs.

“If—If that’s what makes you more comfortable. I can start taking my things upstairs tonight if you want,” Sherlock gets out. He sounds desperate. 

“Sherlock,” John says, turning and gently taking hold of Sherlock’s shoulders. “Do you want me to leave?”

Sherlock looks at John, his eyes slowly getting glassier, then finally gives him a minute shake of the head. 

“Okay. Did you object to our sleeping arrangements before… before all of this happened?”

Sherlock blushes furiously, but shakes his head again.

“I am moving into your room, with you,” John announces. He bursts through the door and starts rearranging Sherlock’s closet, making room for the few shirts he owns that need to be hung up.

“John, what—That’s not what I—,” Sherlock is stammering behind him.

John turns. “If you want me to stop, I will stop immediately and put my things back upstairs. I promise. There is absolutely no pressure. Do you want me to stop?”

Sherlock shakes his head, but his eyes are starting to overflow. “Why can’t you understand this!?” he cries.

John throws his jumpers into the single unused drawer in Sherlock’s chest of drawers. He sits down on the bed and pulls Sherlock down next to him. Sherlock stares at the floor, a single tear flowing out to hang on the tip of his nose. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to understand,” John tells him. “All I know is that I love you, and you love me, and we love Mina, and we can all work together and be a happy, loving family. A little unconventional, yeah, but a loving family all the same. What more could I possibly want?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and the drop falls down, splashing onto his bare toes. “It’s not about that, John. It’s not about how much I love you.”

A sick worry suddenly floods John. “Do you—Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and his voice is so small, so broken, that John barely hears him. “But it’s not about me. It’s about you.”

“What’s about me?” John asks.

“I’m not enough,” Sherlock whispers hoarsely. The tears are flowing freely, now. “Why can’t you see that this is it? This is all I am, John. I’m not going to get any better, any more understanding, any more responsible. I’ll always be a danger to you, to your daughter, and I’ll never know _why_. This isn’t—I love you. Of course I do. I always have. But I’m not enough.”

There’s a pause, during which the backs of John’s eyes physically _hurt_ from all of the tears he’s holding back. 

“I never will be,” Sherlock breathes. He gets up and rushes from the room. 

John sits on the bed, shocked, as he listens to Sherlock put on his shoes and coat and leave the flat.

He doesn’t know what to do. This is so far beyond what he thought Mary would have managed to convince him of.

He doesn’t know how to convince Sherlock that he _is_ enough, that he always has been.

He doesn’t know how to convince Sherlock that who he is right now is exactly who John has always wanted. 

He doesn’t know how to do anything of these things, short of _marrying_ the man, of course.

John stops.

Thinks.

All of his memories flood his mind at once:

Meeting Sherlock. That first burst of adrenaline, Sherlock fixing his leg, Sherlock looking at him like _that_ , Sherlock laughing with him in the entrance of this very building. 

Sherlock’s life being in danger.

John pulling a trigger with absolutely no thought or regrets. 

_Short of marrying the man._

If they hadn’t been so dense.

If they hadn’t taken quite so long.

Where would all of that have led? What path were they already on, before they’d both completely cocked it up?

John takes a deep breath.

He’s going to marry Sherlock.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to—to apologize for my outburst earlier. It was uncalled for,” Sherlock says, and John has to fight the urge to choke. Sherlock is _genuinely_ apologizing. 
> 
> It’s terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all for your lovely screaming comments, I love them so much, and I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this story :)

John blinks blearily awake at nearly four in the morning when Sherlock enters the room as quietly as he can. For a former soldier, it’s not quite quietly enough. 

Sherlock stops at the door, and John can hear his feet shuffling in the darkness of the room. John hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should make his wakefulness known. 

Sherlock pads softly towards the bed before sitting on it gently, his weight barely making the mattress dip. John hears his hands shifting against one another, his feet knocking together, and decides to remain “asleep.” 

He feels like it will make it easier for Sherlock to say what he needs to say, so he waits.

“John?” Sherlock finally whispers. It’s so quiet that if John had so much as twitched in his sleep, he would have missed it.

“Are you awake?”

John doesn’t move, letting his chest rise and fall as slowly and as naturally as he can, despite the fact that his body is screaming for more air now that it’s finally woken. Sherlock’s feet knock together a few more times before he continues.

“I wanted to—to apologize for my outburst earlier. It was uncalled for,” Sherlock says, and John has to fight the urge to choke. Sherlock is _genuinely_ apologizing. 

It’s terrifying. 

“I know you love me. I really do; it would be hard not to notice it, considering my observation skills,” he goes on, and John doesn’t remind him that he _did_ manage to miss it for several years. 

“But that isn’t enough, is it? Sometimes, love isn’t enough. My love for you didn’t stop those snipers from trying to hurt you. My love for you didn’t stop you from getting a bomb strapped to your chest in a darkened swimming pool. My love for you—it’s done more harm than good. None of those things would have happened to you if I didn’t love you. You wouldn’t even have had to kill a man for me, you wouldn’t have that on your conscience.”

There’s a pause, and John is grateful he’s facing away from Sherlock because it’s becoming hard to hide the tears streaming down his face. 

“My love isn’t—.”

There’s a long silence. Sherlock’s hands scrunch up the silk of the dressing gown; the sound is deafening.

“It isn’t—what it’s supposed to be. I’ve always read that love is supposed to be beautiful, and make things grow, and blossom, and—mine just—mine is destructive. And corrupted. And awful. And—.”

Another silence. John couldn’t speak now even if he wanted to; he’s silently choking on his tears. 

“And I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally breathes. “I’m sorry for exposing you to that. For exposing your daughter to that. Neither of you deserve it. I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the sofa until the two of you find a better place to live. Away from love-crazed psychopaths.”

Sherlock stands, the bed bouncing back, and walks away, shutting the door quietly behind him.

John lies awake, hearing _Love-crazed psychopath_ repeated over and over again in his wife’s voice. 

He knows without a shadow of a doubt that those aren’t words Sherlock would ever have put into his own head.

***  
John wakes excessively early, the rest of his night having consisted of progressively more fitful cat naps. Mary’s words are still echoing in his mind, and when he heads into the kitchen to make tea, the sight of Sherlock curled up alone on the sofa, his toes peeking out from the bottom of a blanket he’s tried to wrap himself in, makes him want to scream and cry and exact some sort of horrible revenge on his wife. 

He makes tea as quietly as he can, then leaves a note on the table before Mina wakes and Sherlock goes upstairs to take care of her. He exits the flat quietly, still munching on his morning toast.

He makes his way towards Regent’s Park, travel mug firmly in hand as he watches the still-rising sun. The park is absolutely empty this time of day, and he easily finds a bench on which to sit and just… think.

An interested bird flies down and stands next to him on the bench, watching him with a rapidly-twitching head. John feels like it’s judging him.

He takes a deep breath.

He takes another.

_He’s going to marry Sherlock._

He lets that thought flow through him, enveloping him in a warmth the likes of which he hasn’t felt in much too long. 

He thinks of Sherlock in a tux, smiling at him as they read their vows; of waking up next to Sherlock every morning, his intelligent, sparkling eyes reading him the instant they open; of going to sleep next to Sherlock, watching him let down his guard, be at peace, be with _John._

When he opens his eyes, he’s smiling, but still at a loss.

How can he explain to Sherlock how beautiful his love truly is? How it isn’t destructive at all, how it’s instead molding his daughter into an intelligent, happy little girl, how it’s making John value himself more and more every day, how it cured John of a psychosomatic limp the very first day they met. Like John had feared, the roots of Sherlock’s uncertainty had to have already existed for Mary’s suggestions to truly enter his psyche; she had merely watered the seeds that were already planted, and it breaks John’s heart that Sherlock could _ever_ think that he wasn’t good enough. 

John isn’t particularly good with words; Sherlock tears his blog apart on a daily basis. He’s much better at speaking through actions, and that’s where the proposal comes into play. He’ll just have to _show_ Sherlock that he’s not only enough, he’s more than enough; he’s _perfect_.

Glancing at his watch, he realizes that the shops are beginning to open. He stands, listening to his bones protest his movements, and walks out of the park before all of the young parents and their children start to arrive.

He isn’t sure he’s ready for that right now.

***  
It doesn’t take long for him to find the jeweller’s shop again. It’s tiny but impossible to miss, tucked in between two book shops in Cecil Court. 

It’s where his father had purchased his mother’s engagement ring, and now, with his heart pounding in his chest but his head full of hope, he understands why it just hadn’t felt _right_ to purchase Mary’s ring here. At the time, he had chalked it up to respecting his parents and their marriage.

He understands now that he just hadn’t loved her the way he loves Sherlock. 

He pushes open the door, the tinkling bell bringing back a childhood memory of his mum bringing him here when she had to get her ring cleaned. The man behind the counter had told him he was a handsome young man, and he had puffed his six year old chest out at the praise. 

That man is gone, of course; he was easily in his sixties when John was merely six. Instead, a different elderly man stands behind the counter, painstakingly polishing a diamond ring, and when he looks up, there’s a familiar twinkle in his eyes. 

“Hello,” he greets him, his face serious, but his eyes dancing. John can’t help but smile.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m—I’m here to buy a ring.”

“Most people are,” the old man says, finally smiling. John feels himself relax. “What did you have in mind?”

He puts down the ring in his hands to gesture to a large case full of diamond rings of various shapes and sizes, each with different stones adorning the band around them. John stares, but he knows that it isn’t a diamond that he came here to get for Sherlock. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“I—He’s a chemist. I’m not sure a diamond ring would be best suited to his experiments, it could get caught in something, or—honestly, he just tends to blow a lot of things up,” he says tentatively. The old man doesn’t bat an eyelash. 

“You should have said so, young man. These might be more suited to your… intended.”

He pulls out a different case, this one containing simpler bands, and John perks up in interest. He catches sight of one near the back, and something about the way the sun shines off the bright yellow gold reminds him of something Sherlock once said. They had been in the sitting room, only a few weeks after John had moved in.

_John jumps, shouting. “Sherlock! There’s a bee!”_

_Sherlock doesn’t move, letting the bee waddle up his arm over his sleeve. He peers at it curiously. “John, don’t be ridiculous. I know you’ve only been here a month, but they come in through the windows all the time in the summer.”_

_John creeps closer. “What if it stings you?”_

_Sherlock smiles. “I’ve been stung before. It’s worth the price to study these fascinating creatures. Did you know that they—.”_

Sherlock had gone on to talk about bees for _hours_ , but John, fascinated, had not minded. Sherlock’s beautiful smile and faraway look had been perfect enough for him then, and now… The way the gold is embossed on this ring reminds him a little of a honeycomb, and a little of how Sherlock’s face looks when he’s at peace. 

He looks up and realizes that the old man is staring at him, his lips quirked up in a small smile.

“And that’s how you know you’ve found the right ring,” he says quietly. 

John stares back, surprised. “Yeah, yeah. It is. It—.”

Sherlock’s smile reappears in his mind’s eye, and he can’t help but grin at the thought. “It is.”

“I’ll fetch you a box, then,” the old man says, and John nods, already a little lost in thought. He listens to the gentleman shuffle about in the back of the store and wonders how far in advance he should tell Angelo. It’s not a matter of their table not being available, but rather a matter of whether or not Angelo will accidentally spill the beans in his excitement. John gets the feeling that he’s been waiting for this a long time.

Eventually, the old man steps out again, a black velvet box in his hands. When John cracks it open, the silk inside is a beautiful golden yellow, reminiscent of the colour of honey. 

It’s perfect. 

John smiles up at the old man, who smiles right back. It all feels a bit like a dream. 

He pays and leaves, the little box nestled safely in the inside pocket of his coat, right next to his heart. He stands in the middle of Cecil Court, surrounded by quaint shops and peaceful people, and feels, for the first time, that he’s about to do something _right_.

He’s nearly taken three steps when his mobile rings. His stomach flips when he sees the name of the caller.

“Mycroft?”

“There is a car waiting at the end of this road. Within it is an agent that will brief you and provide you with a weapon. _Run_ , John. You have to get to Baker Street _now._ ” 

The urgency in Mycroft’s voice has John sprinting down the street for all he’s worth.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John touches the shattered lock on the front door as he makes his way inside. The torn metal strips and wooden shards tell the story of how she broke in here, into their safe space, into their sanctuary. 
> 
> John finds that his breath is coming with difficulty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love you all

John touches the shattered lock on the front door as he makes his way inside. The torn metal strips and wooden shards tell the story of how she broke in here, into their safe space, into their sanctuary. 

John finds that his breath is coming with difficulty.

He thinks of how Sherlock must have risen to make Mina breakfast. He thinks of Mina chattering to him while he makes sure the toast hasn’t burned. He thinks of the quiet domesticity of it, the peaceful routine that the two of them have.

He thinks of them scheming quietly in French together, knowing he can’t quite understand them. He thinks of himself watching them, a quiet smile on his face as he makes tea. 

He thinks of _her_ watching them.

He thinks of Sherlock taking Mina upstairs to dress her, and hearing an intruder downstairs.

He clenches his fists. 

John stares up at the seventeen steps, the handgun identical to his own discreetly tucked into the small of his back. The door at the top is ajar, and his heart clenches when he thinks of what he might find at the top. 

He thinks of what was _supposed_ to happen when he got home today. 

He wants to scream.

Somehow, he gets up the steps, not bothering to be quiet; not when she knows he’s here. He pushes the door open the rest of the way and peers inside.

The sitting room is dark; the heavy curtains have been drawn across the windows, leaving the room shadowed. In the dim light still determinedly pushing through, it’s hard to even tell where the furniture is.

His heart in his throat, he looks for any signs of a tiny, fragile human being. He sees none.  
From upstairs, he hears his daughter softly, tentatively calling, “Sh’ock?” 

There’s a moment where his temper flares, wondering why Mary didn’t even want to see her own daughter, but it passes. He relaxes minutely, glad to know that _Mina’s_ safe, at the very least. 

The most concerning thing about the darkened room before him, however, isn’t the stillness, or his daughter’s increasingly panicked cries. 

It’s the violent, terrified breathing he can hear coming from the darkest corner of the sitting room, somewhere between Sherlock’s chair and the nearest bookshelf. It sounds like Sherlock’s breathing mid-nightmare, before he realizes he’s no longer in Serbia, before he realizes it was all a dream. 

He stands stock still, trying to pinpoint the sound, until Mina finally starts to cry and Mary sighs exasperatedly. 

“Jesus, has he really replaced me this quickly!?” she huffs. John zeroes in on the two of them and automatically whirls in their direction, but he knows he can’t shoot without possibly hitting Sherlock. He leaves the gun where it is and flicks on the light, temporarily blinding all three of them as brightness floods the room, illuminating the horrifying situation before him.

Mary is standing directly behind Sherlock’s chair, dressed in one of the outfits John had characterized as a “ninja outfit” when he’d found them in their closet. Apparently Mycroft hadn’t even managed to confiscate her _clothing_ properly. 

In front of her, his breath coming in great, shuddering gasps, a wound on his head bleeding sluggishly, is Sherlock. He’s kneeling, his limbs trembling, and despite his heavy breathing, he’s doing his best not to move his head so that the large knife she’s holding to his throat doesn’t do any damage. Mary is assisting him in this endeavour by holding his head back by the hair with her other hand.

_Sherlock is having a panic attack right now, and Mary is holding a knife to his throat._

John fights the urge to run up to Sherlock, cradle him in his arms, and tell him that everything will be all right, but he knows he can’t.

Especially not when he has no way of knowing if everything will be.

Mary goes on. 

“And _French? Really?_ I come up here and this snob is speaking to our daughter in _French?_ What next, is she going to start calling him _Papa!?_ I already told him that would never work. I really did think he would listen; he _knows_ he can never be a father figure. As much as he wishes he could be,” she snorts, acting as if she isn’t casually destroying the man whose life she already holds in her hands.

Sherlock stops breathing altogether, his head bowing as much as it can in Mary’s tight grip. John resists the urge to punch his wife in the face. 

“What a joke of a family you three would make!” She tosses her head back and laughs delightedly, the knife wavering dangerously. “One father with PTSD and an imaginary limp, the other a useless arsehole who does nothing but experiments all day. Although,” she says, pausing and making a great show of thinking about it, “All three of us know which one would be charged with child endangerment when he accidentally blows up his daughter.” 

She sneers.

Sherlock makes a choking noise. Mary loosens her grip on his hair, allowing his head to slump forwards further. His arms stop trembling and just hang from his shoulders, limp. The fight seems to drain from his body the more Mary speaks, and it’s breaking John’s heart. He feels helpless, and he hates it.

She opens her mouth to speak, but John beats her there.

“What do you want, Mary?”

Mary looks surprised at the interruption, but still grins. “Honestly? Absolutely nothing, John. I didn’t come here to take anything for me; I came to take things _from_ you.”

John frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

Mary puts on her best disappointed face. “You ratted me out to _Mycroft_ , John. To _Mycroft_. To come and be with this posh git. You can’t be serious.”

“You were killing people!” John cries.

Mary’s eyes flash dangerously. “I was supporting our family!”

Sherlock’s breathing is becoming erratic again. He looks half out of his head. 

“What the fuck did you do to him?” John demands. Mary smiles slowly.

“Nothing, John. I just reminded him of a little talk we once had.”

John’s blood runs cold. “I feel like it was less of a talk and more of a situation where you drugged him, you talked, and he listened.”

“Well, he had to know, John. He had to know that what his pathetic psychopathic arse thought was _love_ was actually just destroying the both of you. But you knew that already. This freak wouldn’t know what love was if it bit him on the arse.”

Sherlock hiccups. He makes no move to defend himself.

Mary leans down to whisper directly next to Sherlock’s ear. “I mean, look. He’s destroying everything he has in his life _right this instant_. Who can argue with that?”

Sherlock breaks. He seems to slump in Mary’s arms, and for a terrifying moment, John thinks he’s fallen on the blade. No blood falls, however, and he realizes that Mary moved the blade out of the way just in time; she doesn’t want this to end quite yet either. 

“ _He’s_ not doing anything. _He_ was just trying to get our daughter ready for her day,” John says, his tone dangerous. “You’re the one doing the destroying, here.”

“Oh, but I would definitely say this is his fault, wouldn’t you?” She leans down again, lowers her voice to a harsh whisper. “Wouldn’t you say that he destroys everything good in his life?”

“No. I would say—I would say that Sherlock is the person who has brought me the most joy in my entire life.”

Sherlock remains unmoving, a rag doll with a knife to its throat. John pushes on.

“I would say that he’s the most beautiful person I know. That he’s intelligent, creative, sensitive, and I would also say that he’d be the perfect father for my child. That he’s taught her so much, in so little time, and that we both love him more than we can say.”

Sherlock’s head comes up slightly, his eyes wet with tears. He stares incredulously at John. Mary tightens her arm, but the blade doesn’t move an inch. 

“I would say. I would say that his love isn’t destructive at all. I would say that it’s wonderful, beautiful, fantastic. That it’s made me grow more as a person than I ever thought I could. His love is the most perfect thing I have ever had in my life, other than Sherlock himself.”

The tears start to fall; Sherlock’s breathing starts to slow down to its normal pace, but his eyes remain widened in awe. John lowers his tone.

“I would say that I would never let anyone take Sherlock away from me ever again.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open. “ _John_ ,” he whispers. “I—.”

Mary cuts him off. She smiles slowly. “I have some news for you, John.”

The knife presses harder.

A single drop of blood runs down Sherlock’s throat and down into the collar of his pyjama shirt.

John’s gun is in his hands, aimed, cocked, and emptied before anyone can even blink.

Sherlock slumps forwards onto his armchair, his chest heaving as the sobs claw their way out of his throat, his whole body shaking as the stress from the last few hours takes over his body.

Behind him, Mary’s body collapses onto the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sneaks into the bathroom quickly, pulling his kit out from the cupboard under the sink. As he stands, the day’s events finally wash over him, and he slumps over the sink, his legs having given up on him for now. He waits a few moments for the shaking to subside.
> 
> He tries very hard not to think about how close a call that truly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is nigh

John rushes towards Sherlock just as Mycroft’s men come storming up the stairs, shouting codes and instructions at each other. It seems to rouse Sherlock, and by the time John manages to get his arms around him, the sobbing has given way to hiccupped breathing. 

“You alright, love?” John whispers, trying to be as soothing as possible in the chaos of the flat. Sherlock nods, collapsing into John, but it’s mere seconds before he leaps up again.

“Mina!” he cries. “She—.”

“She’s okay. She was calling for you, before. Get upstairs; I’ll grab my kit, I need to have a look at your head,” John says, his voice remaining miraculously calm. Sherlock nods, then darts up the stairs. 

John sneaks into the bathroom quickly, pulling his kit out from the cupboard under the sink. As he stands, the day’s events finally wash over him, and he slumps over the sink, his legs having given up on him for now. He waits a few moments for the shaking to subside.

He tries very hard not to think about how close a call that truly was.

He shakes his head, grabs his kit, and heads for the stairs, dodging agents and police men at every turn. He stands at the bottom, listening for any sign that something has gone awry, but he hears nothing but silence.

He takes the steps two at a time, as usual, still listening intently. When he opens the door, the reason for the silence becomes clear. 

Sherlock is standing in front of Mina’s crib, Mina in his arms. She’s frantically clutching at his neck, her face buried in it, squeezing him with all the strength her tiny arms can muster. 

Sherlock has his nose buried in the blonde curls adorning her head, looking like he can’t quite believe she’s still here. He rubs her back soothingly as he looks down at the crib below him.

The collapsible front of the crib has been opened, but John is sure that no one had come upstairs when Mary was here. Sherlock turns towards him.

“She opened it, John. She—She opened the crib. She was at the door,” he whispers. “What if she’d… What if she’d come downstairs? Would Mary have—.”

He stops, not wanting to finish the sentence. John shakes his head.

“She wouldn’t harm her own daughter. She’s not quite on that level,” he says, hoping he sounds reassuring. The truth is, he has no idea what Mary is truly capable of. He tries to focus on the positive.

“You know why she opened the crib, though, right?”

Sherlock turns to look at him properly. John goes on.

“When I came in, she didn’t call for me. She was calling for you. She was worried about you, and when she couldn’t hear anything but someone threatening you, she tried to get to you. Thankfully, she’s still too short for the doorknob, but. She was coming to save you. Weren’t you, love?” he says, taking her from Sherlock. She nods solemnly, hugging John. 

“She loves you, Sherlock,” he says quietly, rocking his daughter. She clutches weakly at his neck, the stress of the day quickly exhausting her. They both watch as her tiny eyes flutter shut and her head lolls into John’s neck. John looks up at Sherlock. “As do I.”

Sherlock looks lost. He sits on John’s old bed while John places Mina delicately back in her crib and closes the lock that she somehow managed to manoeuver with her little fingers. He sits down next to Sherlock, opening his kit. Sherlock shuffles his feet, refusing to look at John.

“Sherlock, I—Please look at me.”

Sherlock looks down, shaking his head. John delicately places two fingers below his chin and lifts his head back up until their gazes lock. “I love you. I meant every word I said down there.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers.

“I love you,” John repeats. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love—.”

He stops when Sherlock’s mouth descends onto his, cutting off his words. He reaches up and pulls Sherlock closer, deepening the kiss, pouring all of his love and relief into it. Sherlock’s hands come up to clutch him frantically closer. 

Eventually, John reluctantly pulls away. 

“Sherlock, I—I have to look at your head.”

Sherlock nods, bending down to let John see better. John winces when he gets a proper look. 

“I’ve got to clean this out properly, but I don’t think you’ll be needing stitches. It’s not very deep. What did she hit you with?” John says, digging for rubbing alcohol in the depths of his bag. 

“The hilt of the knife. Apparently the one thing Mycroft managed to confiscate when you called him was her weapons arsenal; she had nothing left.”

“Thank god for small mercies, I suppose,” John replies, triumphantly holding up the small bottle. He soaks a few cotton swabs in it and starts to work on the cut. Sherlock flinches when the first swab touches the wound. 

“Sorry, love. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock whispers. John keeps wiping.

“When she—.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “When she said she was reminding you of a talk you once had, what did she mean? Was it when she kidnapped you?”

Sherlock goes rigid for a moment. John wonders if he’s said the wrong thing altogether, but slowly Sherlock relaxes again. He looks down at he speaks.

“You’re going to find this ridiculous,” he whispers.

John shakes his head. “Never.”

There’s another pause. 

“The first day, she said all of those things, and I knew I was drugged, and at first I argued, I really did. But over the course of the day, it just seemed… more and more realistic, I suppose. No one had come to find me yet, and it just—It made more and more sense the more time passed and I wasn’t rescued.”

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t continue. He carefully applies the bandage to Sherlock’s head. “What did she say to you, love?”

“She. She told me that you weren’t coming. That you had better things to do than chase after a love-crazed psychopath. That you were just waiting for her to off me so that you could come back and be with her.

“But I kept saying that you loved me, that you said you did, and that I loved you, and that’s when—That’s when the tone changed. She never hurt me, but she would appear in the dark, stopping me from sleeping, whispering quietly in my ear. 

“She would say that I couldn’t—that I couldn’t love. That I really was a psychopath. That I was just destroying you, taking away your happiness, corrupting your daughter, and I just—aren’t I? What if I am? What if I’m—.”

“No,” John whispers fiercely. “Absolutely not. You’re not taking my happiness; you’re the only person who’s ever selflessly _given_ me happiness. You aren’t corrupting my daughter, you’re helping her grow, you’re showing her what love truly is.”

“I love you,” Sherlock says in a tiny voice. John grabs him and hugs him tightly to him, trying to communicate just how little he wants to let go right now.

Sherlock’s hands brush up under his coat to hug back, and they both jump when something clatters to the floor.

“John, what—.”

John holds up his hand, and Sherlock stops. John looks from the small black box on the floor to Sherlock, then back again. He leans down to pick it up, then slowly, ever so slowly, slides to the floor on one knee.

Sherlock looks like he’s somewhere between needing to vomit and leaping with joy.

John slowly cracks open the box, and Sherlock’s jaw nearly hits the floor. His eyes are as wide as saucers.

John takes a deep breath. 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you—.”

“No,” Sherlock says quietly. John blinks up at him in surprise, his chest feeling too tight at the rejection, but Sherlock is smiling softly, looking more at peace with himself than John has seen in a very long time. 

“Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock says again. 

“But—.”

Sherlock shakes his head, then takes John’s hands in his. He’s still smiling; if anything, he’s smiling even more than he was seconds ago. 

“I love you,” he says, “But now is not the right time. I want—I want a proper proposal. I want you to propose because you truly think it’s the right moment. And now is not that moment, because in this moment, you’re using that ring to show me that I’m worth something. That I’m worth loving.”

John waits. Sherlock kisses him on the forehead.

“I—I see that now. Thank you, John, really. But. I want you to propose when the time is right. I don’t want us to remember this when we think of our engagement.”

John is disappointed, but Sherlock’s right.

Of course he is. 

John rises on his knees, pulling Sherlock’s face down for a kiss. Sherlock melts into it, a tiny sound escaping the back of his throat. 

John sits back on his heels, his breathing not quite steady.

“Sherlock? Can I—Can I take you to bed?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up as he nods shakily  
***

Sherlock is standing naked in the middle of the room, the moonlight streaming in from the downstairs bedroom’s larger windows to illuminate his body, highlighting his thin frame and lean musculature. He looks like a marble sculpture like this, and John finds he’s been holding his breath for much too long.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and Sherlock blushes and looks away.

“Really?” he whispers. John steps closer, letting Sherlock wrap his arms around John’s own naked body. He surges upwards to reach Sherlock’s ear, nibbling at the lobe and committing Sherlock’s tiny whimper to memory.

“I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my life,” he replies, leaning in to suck on Sherlock’s earlobe. Sherlock throws his head back, panting. John pulls him closer, doing his best to nibble at his neck.

“Sherlock? Could we lie down?”

Sherlock stares down at him for a moment, puzzled, but it barely takes a moment to deduce the problem. Sherlock smirks. “Didn’t realize my height would be that much of a problem—Oof!”

John tackles him onto the bed, straddling his hips and grinning down at him. “No problem at all!”

He leans down so he can kiss Sherlock properly. He licks along the seam of Sherlock’s lips until Sherlock parts them under his ministrations. John swallows Sherlock’s moan when their tongues first touch. 

“I love you,” John whispers against Sherlock’s lips. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

Sherlock smiles. “I love you, too.”

John presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s jaw before working his way down it, sucking and licking and whispering _I love you_ every chance he gets. Sherlock pants at the ceiling, his fingers winding themselves in John’s hair. 

John laps at Sherlock’s left nipple, and Sherlock _moans_. John looks up at him, at his blushing face, at his messy hair, and smiles. “Gorgeous.”

Sherlock smiles shyly back, then throws his head back when John moves to his other nipple and sucks for all he’s worth. Sherlock writhes beneath him as John kisses and licks down his sternum, but his sounds are all muffled. John glances up to find that Sherlock is biting down on his knuckles, trying to hold himself back. John gently reaches for his hand and pulls it away from Sherlock’s mouth, softly kissing each abused knuckle.

“No. Please, Sherlock. I need—I need to hear you.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes wide. When John returns to kissing down his sternum, he lets out a long, low moan that goes straight to John’s cock. 

It’s not long before Sherlock’s straining cock bumps John’s chin. He places a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s hip.

“Sherlock? Can I—Is this alright?”

“Please,” Sherlock whispers. John leaves a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s hip before sucking gently at the head of his cock. Sherlock moans, his back arching, and John tries to take as much of his cock into his mouth as possible, desperate to see Sherlock like this, letting himself enjoy himself, letting himself be pleasured, letting himself _be._

He licks along the underside, using his hand to stroke what he can’t reach. When he starts suckling at the head again, Sherlock’s fingers scrabble at the sheets. 

“John—Please,” he whispers. John redoubles his efforts, bobbing his head up and down to establish a rhythm. Sherlock writhes and whimpers beneath him, his muscles trembling with the strain of not thrusting up into John’s mouth. John laps delicately at his frenulum, his hands stroking Sherlock’s hips soothingly as Sherlock’s head flies back and he cries out. Sherlock’s hands are now firmly clenched in the sheets. 

John gives one more hard suck, his tongue swirling around the head, and then Sherlock is freezing up, his muscles clenching as he cries, “John, I’m—,” before dissolving into moans, his hips shaking as his release paints the back of John’s throat. John works him through his orgasm until Sherlock is trembling with oversensitivity. John sits up shakily, looking down at the perfect picture beneath him. He reaches for his cock, but Sherlock quickly sits up, batting his hand away.

“No, John, please—let me. Please,” he whispers. John nods before kissing him deeply. Sherlock’s hand snakes between them to take hold of John’s cock. 

He’s vaguely aware that he’s making a lot of noise, but most of it is muffled by Sherlock’s mouth. His hands come up to convulsively grip Sherlock’s shoulders as he thrusts into his fist. It’s not long before he’s groaning, coming onto Sherlock’s fist and belly, shaking with the aftershocks. 

They both collapse onto the bed, panting. Sherlock immediately curls into John’s side, and John wraps his arms around his shoulders. 

John buries his face in Sherlock’s curls, breathing him in, letting the feelings of _home, safe, loved_ wash over him. Sherlock throws a possessive arm across John’s chest.

“I love you,” John whispers into Sherlock’s curls. “Never forget that. I love you so much, Sherlock.”

“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmurs back sleepily. John smiles, pulling the blankets over the both of them.

He strokes Sherlock’s hair until they both fall asleep.


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone :) Thank you so much for sticking with this until the end, I'm so glad you guys liked it (so far, anyway) and left me such lovely and hilarious comments.

In the end, it happens three weeks before Mina’s second birthday.

John comes out of the bedroom bleary-eyed and with his hair sticking up in the back, the same way it has since he first started sleeping in Sherlock’s bedroom and ended up with a consulting detective’s nose firmly planted in it every night.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He shuffles into the kitchen and heads for the kettle, filling it while listening to the fascinating conversation in the background, interspersed with the sound of Sherlock massacring a fruit with increasing violence. Mina’s language skills have been growing by leaps and bounds, and most days, it’s hard for either of them to keep up.

“[Mais Sh’ock, je veux des biscuits!]()” Mina protests, crossing her little arms over her chest. She looks disdainfully at the food laid down on the high chair’s table. Sherlock continues patiently cutting up the apple in his hands and handing her the pieces over the slice of untouched toast in her plate.

“[On n’en a pas, mon loup,]()” he says exasperatedly. There’s the sound of someone picking up the toast, and then of someone else smacking it back down onto the plate. John smiles to himself as the water boils.

“[Non! Je te vois les manger hier!]()” Mina shouts accusingly. John snorts, remembering the desperate look on Sherlock’s face when Mrs. Hudson had brought up a box of Jaffa cakes while Mina was playing with her blocks in the sitting room. He had scarfed down nearly half of it while he thought she was occupied, praying she wouldn’t notice. They both honestly thought she hadn’t.

She’s clearly more observant than either of them give her credit for.

“[Je _t’ai_ vu, Mina. Passé composé,]()” Sherlock quickly says, deflecting with grammar lessons. He stuffs a piece of apple in her mouth before she can argue further and she sputters, pointing an accusing finger at him and spraying him with half-chewed apple chunks at the same time. Sherlock waves his arms wildly to ward off the food, but it’s too late. John turns and spots a piece hanging from the tip of one of his curls.

It only takes three seconds for Mina to exact her revenge. She picks up another piece of apple and proceeds to shove it into Sherlock’s open mouth, just as he prepares to speak. It’s his turn to sputter, and Mina giggles madly as she’s sprayed with apple chunks before she remembers that she’s supposed to be angry.

John watches, feeling warm inside, as Sherlock looks indignantly at Mina, and Mina looks right back at him with the most perfect _You’re an idiot_ face that John has ever seen. It’s a perfect mirror of Sherlock’s own expression, and John can see, not for the first time, how much of an influence Sherlock has had on his daughter’s short life. Everyone in the kitchen seems warm, happy, _glowing_.

And for a moment, it’s as though time has stopped. Everything in the kitchen freezes.

John’s gaze zeroes in on Sherlock.

Sherlock, who’s just as invested in John’s daughter as John is. 

Sherlock, who’s taught her another language.

Sherlock, who would put his life on the line for her.

Sherlock, who would put his life on the line for _John_.

_Who has._

His head is slightly tossed back, the light from the windows winding through his curls, and John recognizes the signs of his impending laughter. A smile is already tugging up gently at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, and his eyes twinkle with mirth despite his desperate attempt at a serious expression. 

There is a tiny dimple near the left corner of his lips, and John has observed over the years that it only appears right before Sherlock laughs. John keeps a close watch for that dimple, and loves the fact that it has appeared much more often since John almost-but-didn’t propose to him.

He also loves that Mina is capable of bringing out that dimple whenever she pleases, often simply by existing and being herself.

The reality is, John has seen this scene before; he knows how it will unfold.

Time will unfreeze in a moment. Then, Sherlock’s lips will rise up completely at the corners, and the dimple will deepen, and Sherlock’s nose will crinkle adorably as he throws his head back and laughs, his deep baritone filling the kitchen. His eyes will sparkle, his hair will fly about his face as his body shakes with giggles, and then, he will turn to John, his eyes still bright, his cheeks flushed red, and he will smile widely. He will invite John to share in his happiness, and John will be unable to resist. John will go over to the two people he loves most in this world, warm mug of tea firmly in hand, and he will ruffle Mina’s hair, kiss Sherlock soundly, and then they will all move on with their day. 

John takes a deep breath.

For the first time since the day he had walked out of his room, panicked, searching for his daughter, only to find this little tableau, that is not how he wants it to end.

His decision is made; time unfreezes.

Sherlock throws his head back and laughs, the sound illuminating the whole flat with joy, but just as he turns towards John, nose crinkled and smile wide, John holds up a hand.

“Wait,” he says in response to Sherlock’s puzzled expression. “Just… wait.”

He rushes into the bedroom, pulls out the only pair of socks that has escaped Sherlock’s wild indexing, and nearly tears them in his haste to get to the velvet box inside. He holds it triumphantly aloft for a moment, feeling the soft material rub against his fingers. It’s an awfully innocuous box, considering the meaning of what it holds inside.

He opens it, the mechanism making it jump slightly in his hands. The light glints off the embossed honeycomb, and for a moment all he can see is Sherlock’s smile, and he knows that it has to happen _now_.

He dashes back into the kitchen. Sherlock is looking increasingly baffled. 

And then John drops to one knee, and Sherlock just looks… _radiant_. Mina applauds this grand gesture. She makes sure to kick her little feet for emphasis.

He cracks open the box, the simple movement bringing back the memory of Sherlock’s face smiling down at a tiny bee crawling up his arm, happy, carefree, _at peace_. He wonders if Sherlock sees it, too. 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide. His mouth works, but no words come out.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” John whispers, the rising tears forcing his vocal chords shut. “Will you marry me?”

Sherlock’s smile can only be described as _incandescent_. He reaches for John with trembling hands, his eyes shining. 

“Yes,” he whispers back.

John plucks the ring from the box and places it on Sherlock’s waiting finger; it fits perfectly, and the gold provides a beautiful contrast to Sherlock’s skin tone. 

They both stare down at it in awe. This symbol of _them_.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock whispers. John hugs him fiercely. 

“I love you, too.”

“I love both!” Mina shouts, banging her spoon on the high chair’s table. 

John looks up just in time to catch the dimple’s appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End <3


End file.
